Elves

The dwarves are afraid of the sea, and some of the Eldar avoid the shore.

They fear the desire that awakens once the calls of the seagulls are heard.

But there are some who are not afraid of Belegaer.

For the first time they saw the Dark Fortress from afar.

Reaching Thangulhad, they would try to get information, and maybe help.

Perhaps the Malledhrim had seen the pack of Orks.

The abomination is trying to reach the sky like a rotten tooth.

Foul branches try to grope the fog like misshapen fingers.

A raven, black as night, passes Eliriael as the healer ascends a slope together with Lastore and Raolor.

Searching the ground, Celeblhair stops, shouldering her war-bow.

"In the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach."

They rest. They talk. They prepare. They stay alert. They observe. They think.

But they do not know.

Dangerous they are, armed with weapons of bright steel and shining armour.

While some elves try to gather news from the wounded scout Glorhir, others carefully observe the surroundings.

The air is silent, but danger could come at any moment.

A maze of narrow pathways. Large webs, covering rocks and undergrowth like lurking scars.

A small camp. Nine elves. One of them injured, having barely escaped with his life.