trollshaws

The sun filtered through the leafy canopy above their heads, leaving the ground dappled and the world a slight orange hue after the colour of the autumn foliage. The forest was quiet, the only sounds the clip clopping of the horses on the road and the creaks of the cart rolling along with them.

And thus the last (or maybe not?) journey of the Shadow Walkers began. With Sauron gone, it was like a weight was lifted from their souls. The journey was long but certainly fun in a way and sad in another.

They passed through Gondor, stopping in Bar Hurin, Arnach, Pelargir, Linhir and Lamedon, and they eventually went through the former Paths of the Dead. None of them ever feared this place, whatsoever. In Rohan, they made fewer stops, and they typically stayed in the wild, except that one time they went to an inn in one of the towns and drank some mead together.

It was the middle of the night, Uruniire, tired of the Bree-lands, longing to be in elvish lands again, got up out of bed, put on his purplish-blue and green tunic and trousers, wide-brimmed hat, blue, with a massive feather in it, and pack, stuffed to the brim with books and scrolls, some rations, a coil of rope to scale the High Moor just outside Rivendell, and a small dagger for defense, and grabbed his staff. Then he left the Inn of the Prancing Pony. He went to the stables nearby, untying his horse from it's post, and was off.

"Sol, bakana."
"Kud tâti, Serki?"
"Dugg, Forstrang, ra Havaldr lu zayara."

As soon as Nelnardis stirred, she willed herself to her feet and reached for her pack. It was just about dawn, but she searched for a piece of parchment and something to write with. Thendryt was already sitting by the fire when she walked into the main room of the beorning’s house.