This entry was written by Kharsi.

Orc-Watch does not wake, nor does it sleep. There are always dwarves guarding every possible path and watching the darkness below. There is always someone sitting by the campfire, sharing stories in quiet whispers. There is always a boiling cauldron hanging above the fire, and a dwarf that is tending to it. The only change here seems to be us.

An raiḃ tú ag an gCarraig?
--Dominic Ó Mongain

The Trollshaws

For a heartbeat Cadhrion could not move. The world seemed to tilt beneath him, as if the very roots of the Trollshaws recoiled from what had been wrought.

(( This is happening about four months after this story here: https://laurelinarchives.org/node/66594 ))

In a small tavern in Cardolan in Herne to be exact, a weird figure appears, wearing all gold and black outfit with a golden scythe, you can clearly tell he's searching for someone, or something.

The fire between them burned low, settling into a bed of coals that glowed like watchful eyes. Deorla stood over the map Shereg had spread across a scarred table—Mordor, broken into jagged regions by ash, iron, and old rivalries. Once, she had walked these lands as a servant. Now she looked upon them as something to be taken.

“I am done surviving,” she said at last, her voice calm in a way that made it dangerous. “I will take all of Mordor. Every pit, every tower, every broken banner still clinging to the idea of power. And I will unite it.”

Into the Greenwood

As were me usual custom, I began me tellin' me grandkids' bedtime story in the spot where'd I'd ended the evenin' before...