A hawk soars above the Twilight Lake and heads southeastwards in a determined pace. Attached to his leg is a folded up piece of paper, sealed with bright blue wax, bearing the signet of a dagger.
“Tinnudir, August 17th.
Master,
The Dúnedain of Evendim have tolerated us in their midst for three days now. My reports up until yesterday, as well a number of rubbings and updated maps, have been send off earlier this morning. But I write to you now not regarding this aspect of the mission, but rather to inform you of a discovery of a different kind.
My companion, the Gondorian veteran, took me to the tombs last night. I requested he would show me the locations they had taken the liberty of exploring and looting by themselves. I had the hope of finding each of us a blade of Westernesse, as we are about to face the same enemies that those weapons were destined to be used on: Angmarim, wielders of Black Magic, underlings of the Witch King. Having this purpose also grants me a reasoning to explain how little remorse I feel over our disturbances of the ancient Kings’ resting places.
One such a blade was already in our possession. My companion having taken one in an impulse, without knowing what mighty artifact it is. But its size, age, leaf-like shape and distinct embellishments, combined with the finding place, were unmistakable. Armed with this weapon, he led me down Men Erain and what we saw there is what prompted me to write you, Master.
The lane was deserted, no living thing showing itself this night. No foul, beastly orcs, no tomb-robbers, no invaders, not even the insects that plague every other being here, wether living or dead. Though still there seemed movement in the corners, light creeping around, the suggestion of a presence when we knew there to be none. As we followed the road further towards the Ruined City, flickering lights started to materialize closer to us. They were no natural occurrence, Master, as no source was there to explain their presence. When one of these phenomenons slowly drifted straight at us, we both felt compelled to draw our weapons, however foolish this seemed. The lights exuded a sense of hostility, of menace almost. The innate fear of death, which us mortals are still cursed with, involuntarily flared up in us both, even when his training and my oath grants us both more resilience than many others would have had. The confrontation was swift. Quiet. My blades met no resistance, as if I had swung at empty air, but a single strike of the dagger of Westernesse caused the light to dissolve in an instant.
It is this verity that left me reeling, Master. It explained the phenomenon itself, but left me in a flood of fears I thought I had managed to abandon long ago. The Restless Dead do in fact linger in the Seen Realm and have the capability to haunt its living inhabitants. Our folklore has endless stories on the topic and I regarded them all as false since ye accepted me into your service, Master, but now I have seen the proof. Shall the spirits of those whose demise I caused, now come after me for revenge? The accursed fears of my kind are plaguing me, but it shall matter not. The Westernesse dagger that I took for myself, shall never leave my side again. I swear once more to you, Master, I am your fidâʼi, my life matters none when there is the Cause to be fought for. Let them come, all of them! I slayed them once in life and I shall slay them again in death and it shall be my pleasure!
Ever willingly yours,
Sindalea, Hashashin.”
