Rangers

The victory was a small one yet the celebration was intense, there was nothing like the hate between those close and the Trev Duvardain were at war with their own clan. Smoke rose in thin tendrils from Donnovail, an ancient city in the heart of Fai-a-Khro that they had forced the Gallorg out of. Zorzimril licked the grease from her thumb, enjoying a slice from a haunch of boar. The meat was tough and stringy but it was something other than infernal peas. All the side dishes were made up of the legume, which had been cultivated with success in the land outside the city.

I have never lost my temper like this... Not for a long time at least. We were trying to sort out the fate of the child... When I say we, I mean me and Mayrin. Damn that woman... I messed up is merely an understatement... If I could take back what I have done, I would have. Hells, I'd even become a slave again to take that back. I'd walk to Mordor even... Anything.

It was dark, starless night when Harondred rode his trusted steed, Halgalad up the hill from High King's Crossing to get to Tinnudir. He was determined to get there the very same day as he promised her he will return quickly, things however didn't go as planned and he was late. Watching the road he traveled, rising and lowering his head to tell his whereabouts and judging next step. Suddenly gust of wind managed to blow some clouds away letting the pale moonlight to brighten his surrondings.

Meduion's lips curled into a grin, looking at Archer's gift to the lady Estenthel of a toy wooden horse with amusement. No practical value, to be sure, but then again, there was no practical value in many of his own arts, with words and books and old kingdoms long past. Still, he thought to himself, he knew just how to offer a gift of his own. The scholar leant back on his hands, looking at the trees that lay upon the plains to the north, and drifted into thought... with typical cleverness, as well as a certain state of mind.