I smiled as soon as I walked into the room, and saw it there on the wall, over the bed. For a moment a different sort of ‘magic’ lifted my spirits. It was good magic. I looked to Estarfin, who was just behind me. 

“Remember?” I said.

A tragic tale of dwarvish origin. It was shared by Hrondís at the Haunted Inn in Mirkwood, where the weaver Lomeanis had once again invited different folk to satisfy the stirring spirits with poems and stories.

The night air was thick and damp as Deorla reached the lowlands where Ithilien’s greenery withered into pale reeds and stagnant pools. A ghostly mist rolled over the earth, swallowing the moonlight until only her breath and the faint drip of water could be heard.

She had traveled for hours without rest—north, then east, always keeping the stars of Eärendil behind her. Her cloak clung wet against her armor, and the scent of rot grew stronger with every mile. At last she found a rise of broken stone above the marsh and made her camp there, too weary even to eat.

Bethrelfin was glad that Malethion had not questioned when she entered the house stained in blood. He had taken Dumpling from her arms and quietly went to run her a hot bath. She stood in the doorway, completely frozen. Everything in her had gone quiet, except the burning wounds on her arms. She could not speak. She could not move. She could barely breathe.

It was a simple contract. An investigation into missing pies. A way for the Company to gain the Shire’s good graces, another potential alliance.

Why then, did it end in so much bloodshed?