Memoires of a Reluctant Champion
Dark and distant thoughts brought on by dark vales fill Hartagil’s mind. The smooth cold stone offers a resting place, a respite; a chance to collect one’s thoughts and reflect on the impossible charge to rid this vale of the sorceries and machines of long embedded evil; evil so dark that even the hardy Rangers of the North have cause to shiver.
Far below the rickety suspended wooden bridge that crosses the nearby crevasse, stands the high tower of the once-splendid city which boasted white shimmering walls of stone. Now darkened and lightless, it awaits awakening and redemption. Is she to play a part in this redemption, Hartagil wonders? Do her blades that dance in orange fury have the power to overcome this ancient malice? A moment of recollection recalls the commands of Lord Celeborn regarding this roost, breeding grounds of the fell beasts, and the real reason she is here.
“You missed an egg back there!“
Hartagil is shaken out of her reverie by the clear velvety voice of Tarmanathil, the Elven hunter who has recently taken to calling her “Harty”. This name brings a certain shimmer of starlight to his eyes, or so she might believe. Were it not for his protective care for her safety in Imlad Morgul, this daunting Vale of Sorcery, she may have been quick to dismiss the careless fleeting butterflies she feels at hearing that name. Anyone else daring to use such familiarity would be branded as a target, a deserving recipient of her scorn. But not this day. Not this one.
Half-startled and half-annoyed, Hartagil turns to face Tarmanathil. “Not to worry, I took care of it,” he says. “Shall we search further for the rest of them?”
“Of course,” Hartagil replies. “I was just… well, it looks all so ominous here.” She rises to her feet, recovering some of her curt tartness. “Besides, I can’t let you have all the tribute for culling the hatchlings!” She smiles, half-embarrassed at her retort as she watches his progress, a bit taken aback at the effortlessness of his movements up the steep slope leading to the Troll gate-keeper.
The winds change. A sudden chill of dread blankets the tops of the cliffs. A sound from fluttering of large wings fills the surrounding air. Hartagil turns the corner to find her companion already crouching, fully focused, motioning her to stealth as she approaches.
“She is near,” Tarmanathil hisses. “I sense she is expecting our arrival.” Hartagil sees he is now all business. She grips the hilts of her two swords, her feet poised to dart whichever way her fury takes her. A smile creeps along Tarmanathil’s face as he notices a light orange sheen takes to her frame.
And so it begins. Redemption is nigh.
*Much Appreciation to {{Seregrian}} for editing and polishing the end product*
