She left Gorlakon sleeping soundly, her own slumber disturbed by thoughts that would not settle. Zorzimril slipped on a pair of leather shoes and a cloak over her linen gown, silently departing the tent. The fires burned low, most of the Creoth and Duvardain snoring where they passed out from too much ale. Others stood guard, with tired eyes and deep yawns. And there were those that watched that never grew tired or drunk. The floating wraiths moved silently, their crimson ghostly forms paid her no mind as she walked through the ruins.
Zorzimril paused by the tent Abrazir had set up for her among the collection of Duvardain. He had left her belongings when he departed and she felt a sudden sadness she had been too wrapped up to say goodbye. It would be at least a fortnight before he would return and her steadfast cousin would be missed, he was as her right hand. Among her gear, she pulled a sword without a scabbard, the metal tinted pink by the constant reddish glow of Garth Agarwen.
Holding it in her hand she walked towards the gates where two sturdy Creoth guards stood and she looked at them, "Let me pass."
"It's locked at night," one of them replied, "By the order of the chief."
Giving him a hard stare, she countered, "And I am to be his wife, do you still deny me?"
The Creoth exchanged glances and the one who had not spoken unbarred the gates. The other shifted uncomfortably and warned her, "There are a lot of dark things that prowl around in the night."
Turning to him she flicked the sword, her black hair tumbled across her shoulders as she flashed her teeth at him in a brief predatory smile, "I know, I'm one of them. I'll be back shortly."
They bowed and she followed the path that their party had taken earlier that day. The red haze faded as she climbed upward the rugged hill until she arrived at the crest and looked down. To the north was the fortress of Garth Agarwen, spread out in the land of shadows and blood though it was not so threatening now. Towards the south and the east were wild lands that stretched out, the dusty ground tinted silver by the moonlight. To the west was the dark bulk of Ost Guruth, the home of the Eglain Gorlakon had told her about, a simple people that were no real threat and would be showed mercy if they complied. She smiled to herself as she thought about him. Never had she envisioned herself married or entranced by another person but he was like a piece of herself she never knew was missing. Their spirits seemed to know each other even though they had just met.
Zorzimril looked up at the clear black sky and felt her breath catch. The stars were blazing white and unconsciously she lifted her free hand as if to touch them. She had never seen them so big and bright, even on her journey through the moors it had been overcast every night. She stayed there, stunned by the beauty of the night and the thought that one day her people would live under such skies made her heart swell.
It would be as Gorlakon envisioned, the Rhuduar tribesmen would take their lands back and even this harsh land was more fecund than the blasted cursed Angmar with the poisoned water and heavy gloom that hung palatable in the air. The weight she never realized had pressed against her in her homeland was lifted in this place. Even the red shadows of Garth Agarwen held no malice for it was the spirits of the hillmen warriors that dwelled there. Zorzimril lifted the sword, the steel gleaming in the moonlight and studied the blade.
It was well crafted, the metal finer than any the hill tribes possessed and yet it was plain, without decoration but for a small seven pointed star on the pommel. Obviously not an heirloom weapon, but one of everyday use as the leather wrapped handle was stained dark by sweat and blood. Her scout's blood among it, she was sure. Staring out at the empty hills she thought about the Ranger, wondering if he was being digested by the warg or if he had managed to give them the slip. Testing the balance of the blade, she could well imagine the Dunedan managed to scurry under a rock. They were a crafty folk, secretive and could melt into the landscape to move unseen. A constant thorn in the side of the hill tribes, the Dunedain clung to some notion of duty even as their numbers dwindled. Clinging to ruins and a dead king, they were a people past their glory and now faded. It was time indeed for the hill tribes to rule these lands once again.
Looking at the sword, she thought about it's owner. She did not know the name Dinengel but she knew she hated him. It had been a long time since she recalled that day, when she was still a girl and they brought her mother's body back, the grey fletched arrows bristling from the blood dancer's chest. It was not battle she was killed in but while she was performing a ritual to invoke the protection for her people and the promise of a good harvest. Likely assuming it was some sort of witchcraft, the nameless Ranger had shot her dead and left her lying in the dirt. Zorzimril took a deep breath, not wanting to dwell on the memory on this beautiful night. She would go along with the plan Gorlakon formulated. They would play nice for now, lure the relics of Arnor into a trap that they would not escape this time. And she would be there to give the Ranger back his sword, point first.
Walking back, the soft puffs of dust rose from her supple leather shoes, the white linen undergown floated in the cool breeze. The Duvardain woman approached the gate, taking one last look at the star strewn sky before moving past the guards into the fortress. She sought out her bretrothed's tent and curled up beside him, the sword laid at her feet.
