The Grey Company rides on, passing through the largely deserted Eregion and entering Enedwaith, the lands between the ancient kingdoms of the Dunedain, now long gone to grass and rubble. Though the kingdoms are no more, the lands are not without those who call these home. These are the Algraig, the Middle-men, wary of strangers to the point of the spear, and they confront the Dunedain with their disdain and distrust.
With no small amount of cunning, Halbarad uses his three Elven riders as his envoys to the Algraig; the shock and wonder of meeting the Elves is more than enough for the Algraig and their curiosity. The Company aids them by laboring to lighten their burdens and safeguard their borders, and a tentative bond begins to form, and one day passage is granted for the longer trek south.
It is during these days with the Algraig that Seregrían has her chance to put Dondangal through its paces; the staff's virtues exceed even her anticipated joy. She exults in the staff's power, the crystalline energies bringing her own fury forth in a blaze of might, burning a path through her foes - an echo of the words she spoke in Rivendell, for now it is she who will burn a trail to the East...
One evening as the Company takes their ease in their camp outside the Algraig town, Seregrían reclines on the ground near a small fire of her making, her boots cast aside, her bare legs stretched out in the firelight. She is musing on her journeys, present and future, when she sees a Ranger, a young man whose name she does not recall. He approaches her small fire, which marvelously burns without wood, and stands respectfully, holding a small wineskin.
"Greetings, scholar", he says brightly, "I hope I do not intrude on your thoughts. I brought you this, a skin of wine the Algraig share with us; it's not unpleasant. I had hoped I might share this with you?"
Seregrían turns her now-silver eyes towards the man. "Good Evening. You are unlike your kin; they keep to themselves and disturb me not. But company is sometimes welcome. Sit, and we shall share this local drink." The Ranger moves to sit, but she interrupts, "But first, tell me your name..."
"Faeron is my name", he says as he flops down on the grass next to Seregrían. She stirs at the name, not unlike Farohir, wherever he might be... "Tell me, O Faeron, would you have overheard what the others say, their mutterings in the gloom? I have heard my name several times."
"They speak in admiration, and in awe", Faeron answers as he passes the wineskin to Seregrían. "The powers you wield to aid us and bring our foes to naught; such might is a great thing to have at one's side. One feat especially makes voices rise in praise. In our last encounter, not only did you hurl a ball of flame at your advancing foes, but your breath seemed to fan the flames even hotter, though you were many paces off. It appeared to many men that you blew your foes a kiss, and that's what they call it: 'Seregrían's Kiss' - though none, I daresay would want to receive such a thing..."
"Oh indeed", Seregrían answers archly, one eyebrow climbing into her scalp, the silver light of her eyes now blazing in the firelight. "As if you children would know what to do with the gift of a kiss, if the sight of a woman would not send you reeling in fear. And harken, you are called by Candaith, he sounds in earnest", for she had indeed heard the older Ranger call out. Faeron rises and nods and leaves without a word.
"'Seregrían's Kiss', is it?" she muses as she stretches her legs once more, a bitter smirk forming on her mouth. "They should know better; the Blood-Queen's kiss can bring only pain..."
