Dolthafaer

Dolthafaer was returning from an errand at the forge when he spotted her on the path ahead of him – Yrill, unmistakable even at a distance, dark of hair and moving with all the grace of a mountain cat.  She hailed him with her usual ‘captain!’ once the distance closed between them and he met her with a smile.

“Evening, Yrill.”

She bowed her head respectfully, but Dolthafaer tilted his to the side, taking note of her gear – black leathers, different from the muted greens and browns that she wore on the field.

“I hope I'm not interrupting.”
Thendryt leaned on a pillar and gazed out on the river. Imladris was quiet, if you didn’t count the sound of the large waterfall.
Adanmiel Haerelwen shook her head, but kept her gaze upon the flowing waters.
“Didn't know you were in the Vale, when did you get back?” Thendryt asked.
“I heard you had found out during your watch.” Adanmiel said, wasting no time with unnecessary questions.
Thendryt sighed and looked down.

It had taken him long enough.
Thendryt opened the door to the far section of the Rivendell stables. He didn’t try to be silent, there was no point. He walked towards the Elf. He took his time, there was no need to rush things.
“Must you creep so much?” Dolthafaer asked as his hand fell from his horse’s mane.
Thendryt sat down, loudly, on the bench right next to the box.
“I’ll need that journal back.”

“Thendryt? I wanted to talk to you,” Lilleduil said, watching as Raolor walked away.  Thendryt turned his face towards her slightly, but still kept his eyes upon the Hammer.

“Outside,” he said.

Dolthafaer had – foolishly, he now realized – believed that his troubles with Thendryt had come to an end.  Months ago, the Man had departed from the Valley and taken up his post in the Coldfells, where his madness had been allowed to run unchecked so long as it was against the servants of the enemy.  Out of sight.  Out of mind.  The thought that he might even find his end in those cold pines had been a comforting one.

Why all this to-do? he asked Dolthafaer.

Ost Ringdyr was over a full days travel by horse away from Glân Vraig.
Thendryt was riding slowly along the edge of a ravine. As the terrain became more treacherous, he dismounted and started leading Bovad.
The sounds of a voice brought him to a sudden halt. He drew his sword by instinct as he spotted the figure above him.
“A message, Man of the Warband, from Lord Dolthafaer!”
Female, had to be an Elf. An Elf with a bow, he noticed.
The arrow didn’t hit him, but was aimed at a tree a couple of meters in front of him.

The stories are never enough.

No matter how famous people are, their skill can be only verified and experienced in a personal encounter.

It was not a game, Raolor told him.

Folly, that is what it is.

Parnard looked up from his papers and stared out the window, half-expecting to see the fierce Noldo tripping on a loose stone, a strip of cloth around his eyes, his hands groping as he sought his way through the Valley paths as he fulfilled his latest "challenge."