The grey light of dawn did little to lift his spirits as he shivered and brushed the morning dew from his armour, feeling the cold water soak into the leather of his gauntlets as he did so. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looked around the camp searching for the remains of a fire to warm himself with. Seeing nothing, he cursed to himself and stood slowly, stretching his limbs and testing his shield arm. It still felt weak but it was not seriously damaged at least. He peered around at his companions; some were sleeping still, a few were sitting and sorting through their gear. He searched for the picket wondering idly why he had not been roused from his rest for his turn on watch. Seeing the dark form of Nirhen on the crest of the hill behind the lake he nodded to himself. The Lords Tindir and Veryacano stood together by the small lake holding a private council. Tindir was still carrying the battered shield that had been dug from the snowdrift, although he would not be able to use it with the greatsword that he carried. It seemed almost impossible, but if they came across a halfway-usable forge out here, Estarfin would be willing to repair the shield in preparation for the unlikely event that they found Anglachelm.
He walked down the gentle slope, his heavy boots leaving deep footprints in the patchy grass, his breath smoking in the cold morning air. Crouching at the edge of the water, he filled his canteen, scolding himself silently for his lack of faith in their quest. Ever he doubted their methods and their chances for success. What else was there to do? Give up and return to Imladris? That would be unseemly for warriors such as them, to turn their backs upon one of their own. Stowing the canteen in his pack, he turned from the water and walked back up the slope until he was under the branches of a stunted tree, leaning against the trunk whilst he fished a sharpening stone from a pocket. Pulling the spear from his back, he began the slow process of checking the blade for any notches or damage, and polishing the metal to a mirrored sheen with the stone. As he settled into the familiar and comforting routine, his eyes settled upon the resting form of Parnard, and his lips twitched as he smiled momentarily. Angnasse lay at his side, and he was pleased that the Mirkwood Elf had brought it with him. The smile faded as he thought of how the Hammers had welcomed him, with suspicion and mockery. It seemed that Parnard attracted scorn with his strange mannerisms, but Estarfin knew that he had worth greater than his strange speech suggested. Had they not travelled the dangerous road to Dol Guldur and back? Yet it felt as though there was a distance between them, that something had changed in their friendship when Parnard had remained in Imladris, and had refused Veryacano's call.
Parnard stirred from sleep, and Estarfin quickly looked away. Shivering again, he looked around the base of the tree, seeking for any dry wood. There was nothing of any use, and there were only a few other trees of similar stature in sight. He would have to do without a fire, without any warm food. Such hardships were to be expected, but that fact brought him no cheer, and his thoughts drifted again to the frozen bodies that had been found under the snow. Veryacano had insisted that Anglachelm would have survived if he had been caught in the avalanche, but he could not stop himself from thinking of him, deep under the crushing snow. His noble face, proud and fair with flecks of ice caught in his golden hair. But still, eyes glassy and fixed, dead. But it could not be, and he would not believe it. Seeking to take his mind from such dark thoughts, he trudged up the hill towards Nirhen, wondering if she had seen anything in the night. He pulled his cloak tight about himself as rain started to fall from the heavy grey clouds and hoped to himself that today would be a better day.
