Maethelyn

Thendryt closed his eyes as he tasted his first ale in months.

The Campaign in the Misty Mountains was over, and he was eager to return to the Coldfells.
Vanimar had lost an Elf. Not that he was overly surprised, it was a military campaign after all, but it seemed a big deal to the Elves. He hadn’t been at the funeral, he had no reason to. He just wanted to get out of here, as soon as possible.
He let his hand move up to his chest. The chainmail under the tunic felt heavy, even if the wound from Dolthafaer’s arrow was mostly healed.

The cold wind in the heights of the Misty Mountains swirled around Thendryt. The outpost-fort of Hrimbarg’s cold stonewalls surrounded him. The Warband cloak was restless on his back, the cloth moving violently in the wind. It felt heavier than usual.
You might not fear pain, nor death. But what of exile, I wonder?
Like Dolthafaer would know anything about his fears. Thendryt lifted his hand and touched the dark stone. He clenched his fist and hit the wall.
The damn Elf was right.

Thendryt was being followed. He knew it. Small sounds in the dark, other sharp sounds when he was alone. Which Elf was it? Had to be one from Vanimar.
He looked at the Vanimar Elves. Which one? He needed to know. But how? He left a trail too great to be able to be able to fool the Elf. Unless… He casually glanced out the window of Hrimbarg. The snow was whirling in the blizzard outside. He smiled. Perfect.
Thendryt equipped his gloves. The fur under the plate would be tested, he knew, but he’d endure it. He had endured worse.

Khalis rapidly pulled his shirt down when Thendryt walked into view. Lilleduil was in the middle of applying some kind of salve to his chest and was abruptly interrupted by his movement. Khalis whispered something in Elvish to Lilleduil and walked out. He passed Thendryt in haste, flashing by him.
“What was that about?” Thendryt asked. Faorie cleared her throat but otherwise didn’t answer.
“Thendryt.” Lilleduil said. “Are you hurt? You know I always love stitching you up.”

Patrolling in the snow didn’t calm him down. When Thendryt returned to the camp the Elves had already made a large fire. He made his way closer but stopped once he realized that they were cooking and drinking tea. This is what you summoned me for? He wasn’t here for this. He turned around and moved towards the back of the camp. It quickly grew colder, but he paid it no mind. Better cold than in the middle of that.

There was a small army of Elves waiting when Thendryt finally arrived in the Vale. Vanimar Elves were rushing here and there, getting supplies, weapons and other things in order. He didn’t know many Elves from Vanimar, but had recognized Parnard, standing somewhat in the middle. Thendryt had been the first Warband member on the scene, but he hadn’t waited long before Virthalion had joined him. Soon after, Faorie, Curundar and Khalis. Elisbeth had taken her time, but made it eventually.

”They’re pushing the Hoarwell.” The tall Elf said, and pointed to the map. “If you were wondering.”
“Any particular reason you’ve summon me, Tordúr?” Thendryt said, folding his arms as he awaited the Captain-General’s answer.
Tordúr gave him an annoyed look as he rose from the map table.
“Yes, Watcher, there is. I saw the spectacle in the plaza, I believe congratulations are in order. The Warband is known throughout the garrison and it’s a pleasure to have one so close by.”

The Ettenmoors. Some call it the Ettendales. It is the land between the Trollshaws and Angmar, along the Misty Mountains. To the north lies Mount Gram, where Angmar’s forces keep swarming. To the west, Eriador and the Lone Lands, infected with Orcs already. To the east, the Misty Mountains spring up like a wall, its snowy peaks looking down on you. You could almost believe the heights were pitying you. And to the south…


“I ask to be named Tiri Daethor* of the Coldfells.”

Thendryt wiped the blood off his face. He stood and gazed for a moment, in the middle of the battlefield. They were outnumbered, but not outmatched. Not at all.
Khalis was in the middle of close combat a distance away from him. So was Lilleduil, an equal distance in the other direction.