The Fool's Arrows

"Shall we sing in our language? Perhaps he will cover his ears with his hands." The tall lean, athletic Elf-sire suggested, smiling at Daerundros coyly. He was garbed in the Hauberk of the Mirdirith, something which struck Daerundros as odd, being that the Mirdirith were centered in Lindon, and not so far East. Nonetheless, Daerundros grinned back at her companion, Cirdamir.
"Aye, he thinks my voice bewitched. I suppose a moment of amusement will do." She replied.
The air was chill with the remaining breezes emerging out of the Caradhas. Daerundros glared at snow-capped mountain briefly. The cruelty of Caradhas knew no bounds. She had crossed there in a Snowstorm not too many nights ago, and was met with chilly winds and eternal whiteness that covered her eyes. And now the Rohirrim had begun descending down into the Nanduhirion from that very mountain. She was surprised they had survived the Snowstorm.
The withered barrens of Nanduhirion was an entirely different thing altogether. The Pine-trees grew in wide spaces from each other and stood lonely in many places, quivering ever so slightly at the occasional breeze, and often shedding their needles in a near eternal snow-less winter. The Entrance to Moria loomed menacingly over the camp they had arrived in, Mekhem-bizru, and Daerundros stared into the mouth of Durin's beard, seeing blackness. She could almost smell the orc-stench and the thousand years of rubble and decay.
The Horse-riders were apparently out looking for those lost within the Snowstorm. A noble pursuit, she thought, but a waste of time in her opinions. She was not affected by the cold weather, however, so she chose not to judge their actions. One of their Captains, in contrast, had fallen ill along the journey, falling into a pile of snow and being dug up in deep slumber. He was a captain she was none too fond of; Ceobrand Captain was what the Horse-riders called him, a man of age with a marvellously grown beard, or so Daerundros liked to think of it. Her brief conversation with him, however, left her feeling lukewarm towards the man: Misguided, so was her opinion. And so was her first impressions of him after he began wildly throwing accusations of Espionage and nonsensical Children's Tales at her. He was the reason Daerundros was now watching over an Elven healer who was tending to the old man's sickness. Her lips curled in amusement as she thought of the Aged Man's reaction to having been healed by an Elf.
Daerundros held up one figure to indicate "one moment", and strode over to the edge of the Mirrormere, trailing not too far behind Eorland, whom she had met earlier in Gwingris, Eregion. Unlike Ceobrand, however, Daerundros thought Eorland to be rather interesting to converse to, if it were not for an earlier attempt at gaining information from her with feeble honey-caked words. He was perhaps one of the few Rohirrim she could exchange a rational discussion with. She had often seen him from Gwingris, clutching a fine Wooden Figurine in likeness to Helm Hammerhand, which she assumed was a prized posession.
Her eyes trailed to Abellinda warily as she looked behind her, who was staring into a nearby campfire in deep thought. Daerundros mistrusted the girl from the moment she first saw her. Everything, from her dark attire, to her two swords and the general impression Daerundros got from the girl, screamed "Cutthroat" to her. She wrinkled her nose in contempt as she passed the woman.
As she reached the edge of the lake, she looked at the stars reflected in the water, as well as her own face. The Elven-maiden in the Mirror stared back at her with cold sea-blue eyes and peach-coloured lips, sporting a helmet of brown and gold. She took a nearby stone and dropped it into the water. The ripples in the water made the black line printed across her face ripple and contort into grotesque shapes, taunting her as it lashed her reflection. This was the Mark of her mistakes. The mark that would haunt her and never leave her until she had sailed West or been rebodied after death.
And the she hated it.
Daerundros threw her head back and began glaring at the stares intensely, raising her arms to them, beeseching, as she began singing;