Why is it that I always seem to pen these words beside a fire? Perhaps it bespeaks something of my character. At least this is a different fire then has been my habit of late.
I sit beside the hearth in the Forsaken Inn, slowly allowing the locals to forget that I am here as behind me my two companions drink and celebrate their victory with laughter and toasts. They are so young and filled with hope. It seems like only yesterday that I was like them, celebrating my first victory of arms on the steps of proud Gondomon with my comrades. Only I still remain of that small, happy band...the others slain by darkness and time.
But now is not the time to dwell on the shadows of the past but to look upon the signs of the future.
This morning I returned to Bree after spending the previous day and night hunting the sons of foul Angmar that had begun to crawl out of the darker parts of Nain Enidh, attempting to feed on the bitter remnants of Arnor. After some small pains I finally had a name and a place for our relic-theives. Hontimurz, a servant of the White Hand dwelling in the ruins of Naerost with a large band of followers.
I arrived at the Pony with the morning still new, feeling with this knowledge I would be able to finally face my Sisters again after recent events. Fille and Cyndwin were both awaiting me, and I steeled myself to their anger or disgust. However it was not to be, for they embraced me with even more love and concern then they had before I had assailed them with foul visions. It was only the business at hand that kept me from collapsing in tears into their welcoming arms.
The young Horsemistress had also been busy it seemed and proudly produced a map drawn on a crude piece of skin which she had liberated from a party of Goblins that she had dispatched. A bit of study quickly brought me the realization that a large red circle was drawn around the ruins of Naerost, confirming the knowledge I had gained that this was the heart of our problem, at least for the moment. This then must be our target.
I looked at my two loves, arrayed for war and anxious to take the fight to our foes at last...and I could not deny them, despite my fears for their safety. Dark Fille and fair Cyndwin were united in this as true sisters, their noble blood arisen and longing for satisfaction. Looking at them I slowly came to an additional realization...their passion for battle had doubled, then doubled again when I mentioned that we faced half-orc servants of the White Hand. They were not simply striking out of a need to protect themselves, or Bree, or even to stop the twisted plans of our foes...they also longed to strike in pure ruthless vengeance against the White Hand...vengeance on my behalf. That knowledge left me stunned, my very soul overwhelmed.
Has any poor benighted creature even been more fortunate than I?
And so we rode forth and came in due time to the weathered ruins of Naerost...the Fortress of Sorrow. As I had expected the place was thick with half orc mongrels, and was strongly defended. I sought a vantage where the field of battle was laid before me...and signaled my sisters to press the attack which they did with fervor, howling their battle cries as they cut into the shocked foes. I rained deadly arrows down upon the orcs and every one I cast my eye upon fell dead, rendering the others disorienting and separated, leaving them easy pray for my hunting companions.
By Elbereth they were a sight to see...Fille, dark as a moonlit night, welding a beautiful great sword of her own forging and Cyndwin, fair as the sun at dawn, spinning a mighty halbard that seemed to gleam like mithril in the harsh light of Naerost. Watching their wrath I loved them each all the more. They struck the orcish mob like a mighty cleansing wave against walls of fetid sand and the foes melted before them. The Daughters of Gondor and Rohan worked in perfect tandem, supporting and enhancing one another and left none standing in their bloody wake. When our foes sought to marshall their numbers in counterattack against the two women my arrows mercilessly rendered their plans hopeless, culling their numbers and convincing the cowards they faced a great host, not simply three sisters.
And so we drove forward in that fashion, level by level, assailing the ancient fortress until at last we came to the tower I had been told of. Destroying the desperate resistance around it, I took the high ground as my companions assaulted the only entrance. Within, having been alerted by the carnage, were four massive Uruk, massively armed and in great suits of midnight iron armor, the bodyguards of vile Hontimurz. My sisters were daunted, having never faced such large and ruthless specimens of that corrupted race and for the first time the specter of fear crept into their souls...I could feel doubt seeking to steal their might away as the four brutes realized they faced only two females and began to laugh. I could feel my sisters recalling the Uruks from my vision, and I felt their blood run cold as they felt themselves in my place that day...and that I could not abide.
From my perch I spoke a single word, and it broke upon them like the fury of the hosts of Valinor upon Morgoth's defenses and filled their vile spirits with despair.
"No."
Four shafts fired nearly as one, trailing streams of pure light as they struck home in their unarmored eyes, and the four Uruk were no more. No one will laugh at my loyal Fille or loving Cyndwin. No one will seek to reduce them to fearful shadows of themselves. No one will do to them what was done to me. No one. Not while I live.
And so with a howl of triumph my sisters faced cruel Hontimurz and the White Hand proudly emblazoned upon his chest filled them with a thirst for vengeance anew. He sought to terrify them with his arms and might and coarse threats, but they were now impervious to his power. They each felt me at their back and their sister at their side, they felt my care and devotion in their hearts and my unbending will, no matter how battered it may be, filled their souls. In my love and their unity they felt invincible...and therefore they were.
Noble Cynwind struck first, her mighty halberd sweeping the monster's legs from under him, then deftly sidestepping as he slashed powerfully upward from the ground. The half-orc felt hope, assuming she was retreating from fear, but in truth she was simply giving room to her sister. Fille stepped bravely forward into the gap Cyn had left and swung her lithe body in a tight arc, the newly blooded greatsword extending forward like a scythe and his head was severed in a single blow as she neatly slid the blade between helm and breastplate.
Grasping Hontimurz's foul head by the helmet strap Cynwind drew it back and hurled it down into the depths of Naerost to the dismayed screams of what orcs remained, as she howled "EORLINGUS!!!!" to the cloudless sky. She then turned to us and looked a bit embarrassed, but both Fille and myself could only laugh at her endless fervor and loved her all the more for it.
I would have preferred to question the beast but I could not deny his end was just...and the three of us quickly gathered what shards of artifacts and papers we could from his effects and in triumph withdrew as my two sisters made sport in chasing down the last of Hontimurz's band in the arid hills of Nain Enidh.
And so we have arrived here at the Forsaken Inn again as evening falls, to cleanse ourselves and rest and be refreshed. Soon we shall go through our booty and see what we may have learned...but there will be time for that soon enough. For now I sit by the fire and watch Fille and Cynwind exalt in their victory and feel nothing but the purest joy and pride. They are so noble, and they are so strong...and they are mine.
For the first time in so long, I can taste the hope of victory and eventual peace...and it is sweet. It is sweet indeed.
