Veryacano

"There must be another set of bellows, surely? Search the whole city if you have to!" Estarfin snarled the last command at the wide-eyed assistant, pointing out of the door of the crafting hall as he did so. Nodding briefly, the brown-haired Elf almost fled from the forge, keen to distance himself from such anger. Left alone finally, and dressed only in his old boots, filthy trousers and undershirt, Estarfin turned back to the forge with a determined expression. He would repair the shield; he must.

Believing that Lord Anglachelm was taken north towards the Southern Greenwood, we made shift as well as we could to reach the Great River through the bluffs of the Horse-Men, and after a day of hard travel, we arrived at a hillside overlooking a camp. It was full of swarthy Easterlings, and by a gilt-fringed tent stood a tall and robust Man, with dark, expressive eyes, and a sneering countenance.

Numerous beyond counting, the stars reflected upon the surface of the lake could have been a second sky, so clear was the image. Watching them in silence brought a sense of peace to Estarfin such as he had not felt for a long time. His breathing was slow, his coarse hair shifting slightly in the cool breeze that rippled across the surface of the water. As he stared at the black mirror bathed in starlight, memories came to the forefront of his mind of Lake Helevorn in the green lands of Thargelion and the joys of an all-too-brief childhood spent upon the shore.

Today was quite interesting. In several ways I'd say.

We made our way to a meeting place to join again lord Veryacano who was apparently scouting to... Cross a river again. I am sincerely hoping that we will not have to swim, for my bag is not entirely waterproof. Only the bag around my flute is and that will not protect the whole content of my bag and I do not plan to lose what healing herbs I have nor the bandages nor... Food. Again.

This evening, as we crept through the woods of the Horse-men, we found a cache of supplies, abandoned we think, or stolen from a village, more likely. We stole it back, and decided to keep the goods ourselves, for safe-keeping. Inside we discovered dried beef, and cheeses, all unspoiled, and in another crate, many bottles of wine, young and harsh red. We were mighty glad of this treat, and it was a stroke of good luck to get it; for we had near run out of supplies, and we had not had any wine for many days - none since I left the Valley.

The more we go on this quest of ours, the more I find that I wish I lived alone somewhere with no one around at less than a day of travel.

I see only one good thing that happened today : lady Nirhen finally awoke. I was beginning to worry since the longer she was unconscious the more likely it was that there was lasting after-effect of that hit on the head. Honestly, I didn't think lord Tindir was strong enough to do that but... We were lucky, or rather, lady Nirhen was lucky. The only after-effect she suffered from was nausea, and a headache.

I have made too many observations on Men in my wanderings throughout the lands, and I have found that many are imbued with an instinct of cruelty, if I may call it an instinct. Their hearts are strange to us; and while it is true that there are, in every people, exceptions to the rule, in my travels through the Eastern Wilds, I have found Men who do not possess a natural delight in distress and horror to be woefully few.

We have done the Dun-men abundance of mischief, and we went against Grimbold’s wishes, and crossed the Isen when he forbid it. But he is not our lord to command us, and we go whither we will – that is, until now.

Tonight, we were set upon by a herd of Horse-men, and they surrounded us, and aiming their bows and spears at our throats, commanded us to lay down our weapons, because their king does not abide strangers wandering the land without his leave.

A sense of foreboding and fear lay upon him like a grey shroud, so thick he could barely breathe for the despair that clawed at his heart. Helpless and at the mercy of his captors; the thought was enough to send a chill through his blood, and he drew his knees to his still-healing chest. What treatment could they expect from these tall Men? They were raucous warriors, and he remembered well the treatment that his own band of warriors had meted out to their captives in Dunland.

(reposted as I accidentally posted this in the Poetry Category - P.)