Thendryt

Dolthafaer crouched over the corpse of a goblin lying face-down in the snow.  Two arrows protruded from its back – one was broken, perhaps tread upon by its own brethren as they fled the mighty company of Vanimar and Warband, but the other was intact.  He yanked the unbroken arrow free from the corpse and bit back a wince as he felt an answering stab of pain in his shoulder.

The cold wind in the heights of the Misty Mountains swirled around Thendryt. The outpost-fort of Hrimbarg’s cold stonewalls surrounded him. The Warband cloak was restless on his back, the cloth moving violently in the wind. It felt heavier than usual.
You might not fear pain, nor death. But what of exile, I wonder?
Like Dolthafaer would know anything about his fears. Thendryt lifted his hand and touched the dark stone. He clenched his fist and hit the wall.
The damn Elf was right.

Dolthafaer knew that he was treading upon thin ice – an analogy that seemed fitting in the bitter cold of the Hithaeglir.  A spark of uneasiness had lit in him the moment the Man had turned his back on him in the snow, his final words twisting in the wind. 

Choose well, Lord of the Arrows.

No refreshment save battercake and wine, and standing on the walls of Hrimbarg Keep, I looked outward, staring at the sky, hoping for some glimpse of the lights in the darkling. Night comes on apace here in the far North.

(This incident took place after the fight with the frost giant at Vindurhaal)

In all the time she had been striving to join the Warband and after she had done so, Lilleduil had never known Khalis to be wounded.  So she was shocked to see him rubbing his side and up under his sword arm after the fight with the ice giant, speaking to Faorie in a low voice.  She kept an eye on him during their journey back to the camp and he seemed to be traveling well enough, though he complained once of missing the trail.

Thendryt was being followed. He knew it. Small sounds in the dark, other sharp sounds when he was alone. Which Elf was it? Had to be one from Vanimar.
He looked at the Vanimar Elves. Which one? He needed to know. But how? He left a trail too great to be able to be able to fool the Elf. Unless… He casually glanced out the window of Hrimbarg. The snow was whirling in the blizzard outside. He smiled. Perfect.
Thendryt equipped his gloves. The fur under the plate would be tested, he knew, but he’d endure it. He had endured worse.

Perhaps, the Arrow lord reflected, as a hard gust of wind hit his back with enough force to make the sure-footed elf stumble, I should have lingered in the keep.

Khalis rapidly pulled his shirt down when Thendryt walked into view. Lilleduil was in the middle of applying some kind of salve to his chest and was abruptly interrupted by his movement. Khalis whispered something in Elvish to Lilleduil and walked out. He passed Thendryt in haste, flashing by him.
“What was that about?” Thendryt asked. Faorie cleared her throat but otherwise didn’t answer.
“Thendryt.” Lilleduil said. “Are you hurt? You know I always love stitching you up.”

Limiriel rubbed her gloved hands together; eyes narrowed as she watched Thendryt slowly make his way through the deep snow from her perch high up in a snow-laden pine. The surly man’s heavy footsteps jarred the silver night. She wrinkled her nose in a disdainful sneer and leaned back against the trunk.

Men.

How many lives had been destroyed at the dishonour, disloyalty of Men? They had brought death to the Eldar and the Naugrim and to those of their kind that defied the curse of the Lesser Race.

She snarled silently and sat up again, spear in hand.