Dwarves

It rained a little, of course. How could it not rain on them? But they kept up a good pace over the farm and grasslands of Annundir, into the gently rolling hills of the West. It was a trail Yrill had only followed a few times before, being far more a haunt of Men than of Elves. She knew the way, but not much of the surrounding land.

Aicasicil’s mansion, Forlindon, winter morning

“Sire, your armour is excellent, but may I suggest something?” said Naraal as he stood before the decrepit old house with the wolf’s head device carved upon its ancient oaken door.

The trek upon the Misty Mountains was long and difficult. Outside the valley of Rivendell, the winter was in full swing, which made the mountain passes even more dangerous than usual. A less skilled company would have lost a member or two to the uneven rocks and slippery ice, but Thorneth and her Company managed to avoid any serious misadventure.

"An inspiring tale, (for one told  while half drunk on ale). But am I really the only one to doubt the likeliness of these strange events?"

Dexto Hops Puddlefoot, proud owner of the Toppled Turtle Tavern.

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"The Return of Fáfnir"