Gondor

It had been many years since Anorieldis had taken up the studies of lore, herbalism and painting. The first two had been deemed proper by her parents. The last was of her choosing, having had the propensity toward art during the majority of her sixteen years. She spent most of her time in the Houses of Lore, studying little and great things by candlelight, in the darkened rooms of those vast libraries.

Isulril stood in her near-empty home, staring into the fire in the grate. The furniture had been covered in white sheets, and dusty. But there was not much of it. The home had not been used in some time, when she had arrived several months ago.

She thought about Handrynhad, who had spent part of his life in Bree-land, though much of it in Gondor. He was a minor noble, who had his hand in trade more than politics. He bred hounds, and made much gold off the selling of them.

A cry of a gull. The crashing of waves against weathered stone. The pit-pattering of rain. The sounds of her homeland accompanied her as she departed the shining city of Dol Amroth.

"Come on, strong friend. Carry me swiftly and do not falter," she whispers to the black stallion that would take her far across the lands of the world.

The Captain and the young Ranger stood behind the heavy oak doors of his office. Though the rhythmic clanging of swords and the shouting of trainees echoed from the courtyard below, the air inside the room was thick with a suffocating, quiet dread.

The Captain paced behind his long wooden desk, a deep frown carved into his weathered face. Every few moments, he would pause, cast a heavy glance at his daughter, and resume his pacing.

Why had she thought the journey would go more smoothly? Had she jinxed them by thinking such thoughts before? Dru had truly believed their little group was getting along much better. Yet somehow, one time she was not in Ost Guruth for a little while, it all fell farther than it had been before it looked better.