The fateless Wanderers

This one sits here writing this, as Mathildah sleeps soundly on his shoulder. It still makes him smile to think about that fact.

Last night was certainly entertaining, and one doesn't know whether to shout at Sigfread, or embrace him.

A dark cloud was hovering over the Eastern side of Ered Luin, a dark cloud connected to the black some that kept ascending to the sky, coming straight from the forges of Kheledul where the Dourhands worked day and night, forging the armour asked of them. The guards were standing atop the walls, disciplined, with their weapons in hands, to be ready at all times. The patrols were more as well, except for the usual patrol around the fort there were others, spread all over the vast area.

Finally, we are on the move.

The goblin scout ran all the way into the camp in Dol Dinen, his size resembling an excited and deformed child that’s about to play its favourite game, rather than a goblin. He broke into the tent without asking for permission, earning the anger of his superiors, but the news he brought made me lose their interest in beating him for barging in the tent without a word. “They’re coming!” he said, “Thirty or fourty orcs with carts are getting close to the gates!” and started panting heavily.

Today was rather eventful for this one.

Only the rustling of the leaves could be heard all around him as Amrath silently moved through the trees in Evendim, heading for Ost Heryn, trying to remain hidden in the foliage, wearing his dark brown cloak and hood. It didn’t take him long to see the thin line of smoke somewhere near the ruin. It also didn’t take him long to get there and see a small fire, barely burning, not giving signs of its existence, and six or seven men around it, talking seriously, their faces were apparently in deep thoughts.