Dolthafaer

My Lord,

It is my duty, as your most faithful, and most bounden servant, to make known to your lordship an account touching upon our time spent in the Hithaeglir, that the truth of the account may give you both knowledge and, I hope, great satisfaction.

“But what if I want to come home? What if it's all too strange, and I get frightened? What if I miss you all too much?” Linneth suppressed a laugh, looking at the small face of her daughter, crumpled with worry. She held out her arms, and Caethel ran forward and scrambled on to her lap, pressing her face against the front of her mother's robes. Gently, Linneth stroked her hair, waiting until Caethel pulled back a little and stared up into her face, grey eyes clouded with anxiety.

No prisoners! No mercy!

Dolthafaer crouched over the corpse of a goblin lying face-down in the snow.  Two arrows protruded from its back – one was broken, perhaps tread upon by its own brethren as they fled the mighty company of Vanimar and Warband, but the other was intact.  He yanked the unbroken arrow free from the corpse and bit back a wince as he felt an answering stab of pain in his shoulder.

The cold wind in the heights of the Misty Mountains swirled around Thendryt. The outpost-fort of Hrimbarg’s cold stonewalls surrounded him. The Warband cloak was restless on his back, the cloth moving violently in the wind. It felt heavier than usual.
You might not fear pain, nor death. But what of exile, I wonder?
Like Dolthafaer would know anything about his fears. Thendryt lifted his hand and touched the dark stone. He clenched his fist and hit the wall.
The damn Elf was right.

Remain within the keep, he had told them.  Rest.

A simple order. 

Clear as crystal. 

A storm had been brewing – always perilous, this far East in the Hithaeglir – and up until that point, his scouts had been working tirelessly, alternating between watch and patrol.  There had been no need for extra eyes in a blizzard.  He had wanted them to take the opportunity to rest, regain their strength.

Yrill had disobeyed him. 

Tancamir had disobeyed him. 

“A word, Lord Dolthafaer.”

Dolthafaer knew that he was treading upon thin ice – an analogy that seemed fitting in the bitter cold of the Hithaeglir.  A spark of uneasiness had lit in him the moment the Man had turned his back on him in the snow, his final words twisting in the wind. 

Choose well, Lord of the Arrows.

Luthelian rested her hand against her forehead, the dizzying effects of her head injury not entirely having left her.

“For the remainder of this mission, your duty is to watch the camp. You will not wander from your post.”

“But, my lord! That is unfair. I can help the others scout.” Surely, he would not make her entirely useless during their time in the Hithaeglir. Her head pounded more as her temper rose.

The sound of running water met the scrape of steel against bone as Tancamir crouched by a small streamlet. He held an enormous curved horn in one hand, scraping flesh and fat from it with the blade of his dagger. It was easily the length of his forearm, cruelly ridged and with a pointed curl at one end. But it was surprisingly light and hollow, weighing only a fraction of what it seemed. He grinned to himself as bits of flesh fell off the end of the horn, until it was polished and clean. Swiftly he plunged the horn into the ice-cold water, then drew it out and laid it on the snow.