Rangers

The geese are departing from the north. From my single window I see the skeins in ragged formation arrow across the evening sky. Behind them the moon is newly risen - this season, this moon ... impossibly far away from this dark place, and what happens in this place, a great house is flooded with light and music.

Under the richly decorated ceilings,within the tree arbors festooned with lanterns, the brightest host is dancing. Maidens in gossamer dresses tip their faces up to radiant lords - shy, coy, merry, proud. The flower of elvendom gathered to celebrate autumn.

A child should not have to see this. The end, then, of childhood. And a reason – if any is needed – why he has always hated wolves …

It comes to him as dawn rises over the lake. The water steaming gently as it warms, as though the lake itself breathes. This early in a cool autumn morning the birds are only beginning to wake. A single heron flies with deliberate strokes along the edge of the shore, grey bird against misted water, coming to land with surprising grace.

The heron finds its fishing spot and freezes.Tarchlang watches the bird, looks over the lake. The solitude oddly magnified by the presence of one fishing bird.

'He's as tight as an overstretched lute string.'

Every year of my youth I would help with the harvest. Though the work was hard, the break from our routine came like a holiday to my sister and me. Our hands and arms pungent with the scent of the plucked oranges, a mid day meal in the pools of cool shade that were cast by the dusty pines. Olives from our own estate, fresh bread, wine from our own vines. My grandfather's wealth tangible, edible.

Minyelaire's hand reached into the grey fur of Radbug. What a good companion he was. His nose had led her right where she wanted to go. Her blood-red lips set a slight kiss on the beasts snout, whose tail swings from one side to the other. The Avar can make out Daerundros, to her surprise Nimlith... but where is the ranger?

In slow motion, Daerundros beheld the chaos-of-an-argument happening before her. Her eyes flicked towards her counterpart Minyelaírë as her left hand shot up to the small and readied hand crossbow on her side. With a swift movement, less than a second, she had fired it. Amlarad staggered as the bolt cleanly penetrated his thigh. He grimaced in severe pain and doubled over, helpless on the snow.

Anger. Anger and Fury. The Woman looked at the lake once more and cursed to herself in Sindarin. Her worthless band had failed to show up consecutively now, and their absence drove her mad with fury and longing for companionship. Her friendship with Furlaf had faded, and even her relationship with Boen was going downhill. Only Cyneburga was her only friend.

She had gone to Cardolan to seek out an old friend who’s wise words might help her but instead she found a host of her friends gathered with many others for what reason she could not fathom.  Amlarad, Oldgrove, Adunzil, Noruien.   Had she missed some summons?

October 24th

Third Age. (Exact year is still unknown)

Encampment south-west of Goblin-Town.

A war in the freezing colds from the mountains of mist had started. Rangers, Elves and a small company of Dwarves laid siege upon the Goblin-encampment.