Estarfin

Dolthafaer stared down at the valley, the snow reflecting the sun’s dying light.  A lone howl drifted up to the crumbling stone ruin where the Arrow had stopped to rest.  He grimaced, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, and turned to face the rest of his company.

“We have rested enough.  Time to move on.”

Fresh pain ripped through him and tore his conscious mind back to wakefulness. He let out a wordless cry of pain and fear as agony tore through his leg. In desperation to stop the pain, to defend himself, he reached out for his shield or his spear. His searching and grasping fingers found nothing but snow as he raised his head to look down his body at the black-furred and yellow-eyed warg that had him firmly in its gaping maw. His leg was being slowly crushed between the steel plates of his grieves as the beast sought a way to get to the vulnerable flesh beneath.

Dolthafaer regarded his company with a critical eye, taking in their thick cloaks and heavy boots and somber colors, and nodded his proud approval.  He passed each of them a small flask of firewhiskey, warning them to use it sparingly in the bitter cold.  He reminded them of their mission, informed them of the dangers they might face, and a moment before he would have started them down the path, Veryacano approached them.  The Hammer lord briefly inspected the gathering before leaving them with a final order:

The blizzard abated three days later.

Limiriel draped the heavy white fur around her shoulders, clasping the silver mallyrn leaf at her shoulder. Blue smoke drifted up from the dying fire as she knelt down to put a small blue pouch filled with gold coins next to the sleeping dwarf.

Dolthafaer frowned down at the map spread across his desk, brow furrowed, restlessly drumming his fingers against the smooth wooden surface.  His gaze swept over the inked region of the Hithaeglir, returning again and again to the red splotch marked on the top right corner.

That is where Estarfin went, Parnard had claimed.  To the Goblin Caves.

Miruial crept into the healing room on the soft padding of her thin periwinkle slippers. The scene before her was clearly the cause of alarm among the steady stream of healers who had come to her at her workshop that day. Glass jars and phials that usually stood at attention in neat orderly rows on their shelves stood in haphazard locations all throughout the room. Several balls of parchment paper lay littered at the base of the red table, where Eliriael sat poised rigidly.

“She cannot be consoled!” the first had announced.