revenge

“Watch out, that Elf will cut your throat, and toss your body overboard,” some of the crew were saying as they languished on the deck. They laughed, but behind the mirth I knew they were unsure of me. I liked it that way. Let them insult me, but let them fear me too. What they did not know, what they imagined, could drain their strength.

Fumbling with the key in his left hand, Jexson knocked aside the offer of help from the straw-head, Wolfrun, and all but forced the door. It swung open with a soft creak. He headed for his chair by the table, thinking if Wolfrun and Davion were not with him, he would have just collapsed on his bed. 

The mountain wind carries their foul voices. Even further does it carry their stench. The pursuer on their tail ensures she makes no sound, bare feet taking careful steps on the stony path. She hastens. The chase nears its end. 

They came out of the ancient Dwarf-Mountain in the north. A retinue of ambassadors no doubt, dressed in their best rotting hides and assorted filthy trophy-skulls. On wolves they rode across the Vales, but now a pack of eight is left and they move on foot. Evidently the Bear-Men didn't let them escape their realm unscathed. 

Year 2518 of Third Age, autumn

Clear voices rose and fell in the starlit air. One rose above the others. It was singing in the fair elven-tongue.

In gwidh ristennin, i fae narchannen
I Calar Ithil ed ardhon gwannen
Calad veleg, ethuiannen. 
 

Everything ends.

After the First Age, many elves were left stranded and aimless. Beleriand had sunk beneath the sea, and much was lost. There were two options it seemed. One, sail back to Valinor. After everything that had happened, all the wrongs committed on both sides of the sea, slink back into the shadow of the Valar.

The men were nothing to him, beasts for the slaughter, ants beneath his boot, a disease to be eradicated. His sword in hand, Arenborn Kolten marched forward slowly, with very little care to protect himself as he cut through them. Twenty years ago he might have considered showing mercy. Not today, not in this narrow corridor, not after what they had done.

The big chestnut horse snorted a greeting Bada approached, running his hand along the arched neck of the stallion. Murmuring to it, he began to brush the steed, the repetitive motion both relaxing and gave him time to think.

Forgiveness Forsaken.
Formalities Forgone.
Filthy existence
Soon to be undone.

Fraudulent Faces Follow
Fragile Facades,
An ebony Feather marks--
Forthcoming rage.