Nen Harn

When Gwennol arrived back at her campsite, she saw Pren was awake. He sat on the ground, his long legs sprawled out as he gazed into the flames of the fire he must have rebuilt from the smoldering ash of the morning. He had a pensive or bored look on his face, she was no sure which as his beard hid so much of it and over half his visible face there was a smear of red ochre, three lines to be exact. War paint, she recognized, still fresh and wet. 

Gwennol listened as Pren explained how the people he had met on his first journey to the north had accompanied him south, only betray him and leave him for dead. He spoke of dark figures firing arrows, swift and strong they were but he did not see their faces. All he knew was that he had lived and lusted for revenge against the faithless man who he believed was behind it all. It was a fight with this man that left him in such a state and once again, they had tried  to kill him. Tying him and leaving him to drown.

It was a man, a large man with swarthy skin, a thick beard and fierce dark eyes. Gwennol instantly recognized the look from his face to the fur and leathers he wore. He was a man of Dunland, her own kin and so very far north. Quickly she bent to untie the waterlogged rope that bound his arms and she noticed the blood stained wet clothing and a large slash in the tunic. His long hair was matted with mud and lake weeds tangled in the braid and she could see bruises and cuts on his arms and hands.

The village on the hill was her destination, Gwennol was certain of it and yet she was confused as to why. The symbol of the boar was everywhere, on banners and carved from stone and spouting water. In the fields surrounding the town, there were signs of boars in the field. Her heavy drab robes dragged against the cobblestones and she saw the stares and gawking mouths as she passed by the merchants at their stalls. The common tongue was spoken here and she could understand more than what she could speak back. Her craban cawed and flapped his wings, setting on her shoulder.

The sun is just beginning to rise and a cool breeze caresses the quiet shores of Nen Harn. Nothing seems to disturb the two wanderers. Threland sleeps on the soft sand of the strand, while Sefa swims a little way off the shore, keeping herself away from Threland so as not to awaken him. Her hat, scarf, sword, boots and gloves are all in a pile beside him. She spends her time seeing how far down she can dive, daring herself to go deeper and deeper.

... I find myself in a rough countryside - leaving the foot of Amon Sûl behind me, crossing a swift-flowing stream, I let Carnirocco* climb the steep hills. It seems the surrounding area is infested by Orc bands; the Dúnedan was right. Shortly after noon I encounter a group of Men camping by a hill, without much shelter in this barren land.