Asmalinde sat in a chair in front of the great fireplace in the Hall of Fire in Imladris. She slouched backwards, legs stretched out as she enjoyed the warmth of the fire and the ethereal, timeless joy of the hall. Her journey from Mithlond had been swift. She had parted from the southern bank of the Gulf of Lhun twenty days before. Asmalinde journeyed through the wilderness. Tall trees and hilly crags blocked the old path travelers had abandoned. Ruins of old elvish dwellings and settlements peeked their way above the surface of the earth beckoning someone to explore them and recover the lost memories ere the sundering of Beleriand.
Asmalinde was clad in an intricately woven silver and pale green set of chain and leather armor. Her shoulder guards were leather over mithril trimmed steel. Elven made long ago, the weave made the armor quiet and the wearer as stealthy as silent wraith. Her boots were thigh high to ward off brambles and possible snakes as she journeyed cross country though brush, swamp and mountains. She eschewed her helmet. A sturdy but lightly made piece of gear with gold trim around her eyes. If need be it could withstand the blow of a cave-troll with an iron club. Instead she wore a lighter green bandana that tamed her golden hair, covered her pointed ears if need be and kept dust and sweat from her eyes.
She entered the Shire from the Far Downs and circled around the small Hobbit town of Michel Delving. The land had shifted from wilderness to the bucolic scenery of tamed farmland. Hedges grew up and small lanes ran beside them. Household lamps gave light to the doorways of hobbit holes built into the hills. She smiled as she thought of the short, furry footed people going in and out of their round doors. Sheep baa-ed in their paddocks and chickens squawked their way around farms. Keeping off of the beaten path Asmalinde made her way through Tuckborough, Woodhall and the marshy land west of the Brandywine river. She had pulled her cloak over her head and listened as the hobbits gossiped about events in the shire while waiting for the Buckleberry Ferry to return from the east side of the river. She chuckled softly to herself as they described a giant mushroom that had won first prize at the local fair and the excitement and joy of the hobbit who won. The loser was the butt of many jokes and not well liked at all. The hobbits on the ferry with her paid her no mind and pretended she was not there.
On the other side of the ferry Asmalinde rode up and over the hills before dipping down and crossing through a gate into the old Forest. Wild animals made grunting noises and the crickets chirped as she made through the paths of the venerable woods. Trees towered over her path and the underbrush pulled her legs back in the stirrups. She crossed a stream by an enormous willow tree and up a high slope where she saw a lovely quaint home with smoke rising out of a chimney. She avoided contact and turned north up the trail. She failed to notice a bearded man in bright yellow boots leaning against a fence post and puffing on a pipe. The man nodded as if he expected her and opened the door to his home to the sound of a beautiful soprano singing.
She crossed Tyrn Gorthad, the Barrow Downs, ancient capital of Cardolan paying no heed to the wights and spirits fluttering around like a shiny borealis in the starry sky. They skittered away to avoid her path and were left spinning in her wake. Elves have no fear of the dead and Asmalinde’s ancient light repelled them. She crossed the tombs and exited the downs at the Dead Man’s Perch. As she neared the walls of Bree-town she could smell the leftovers of cooked meals and the sounds of minstrels playing in the late night taverns. She sighed just a bit, wistfully thinking of the loneliness of her journey.
Plunging back into the wilderness she camped beside a small creek. Asmalinde lit a small fire and munched on a bit of lembas before laying out her bedding away from the fire. She wanted to avoid her night vision being spoiled by the flame. She laid back on her bedding and rested, not fully sleeping as elves do not need the sleep the humans do. She rested until the dawn broke over the east. She rolled up her bedding and packed her gear making sure the chest she was to deliver was secure and hidden from sight. When she completed her tasks nothing was left to show anyone had ever been there.
The Lonelands were trivial. She avoided the beaten paths and the main road. She traveled the game trails migrating animals and elves used to move in secret. The sun heated up and the dust burned her nostrils. The grasses were knee high. Several times she circled around her trail to see if anything was following her. In the wilderness she trusted the behavior of the animals to warn her of danger but out in the rolling prairie the lack cover kept most wildlife at bay. Several times she pulled her horse off the trail and sat still wary of orcs and goblins running weapons along the paths. Spying nothing she traveled on. She loosened her sword Varyando in its sheath and made certain the shield on her back was easily accessible. Her ancient blade had been made in the forges of Gondolin. Made in the times of the ancient wars between elves and orcs it glowed blue if any such were near. She slid the blade out and the metal was dull.
She made the last bridge at dusk. Twilight glowed behind the forest in front of her and the sun was on her back. Asmalinde knew she had to be wary on the trail through the Trollshaws. Various fell creatures prowled the paths and ancient ruins. Trolls emptied from the deep limestone caves buried behind the trees and vegetation. Asmalinde had no intention of coming near any of them. Her ears could pick up their tramping from miles away. She had been roaming the Trollshaws since her awakening and knew them like an old friend. Growing weary she made her way to Thorenhad and camped for the rest of the night. There were a few dwarves in residence and several elves. She was able to eat a hot meal instead of lembas and was able to rest safely.
The ancient elf loaded her gear on her horse and stole away from Thorenhad before the sun came up. After a short ride she could hear the sound of water rushing over the rocks of the Bruinen Ford. Asmalinde halted her horse and stayed under the cover of the brush. The crossing was wide open. She waited patiently because a prickling on the back of her neck warned her something was amiss. Snorting to herself, ‘I have not lived this long by being a fool.’ She thought.
Before long she heard them. Growling and speaking in the black speech, ten orcs splashed into the water from the eastern shore.
They were huge, wiry, muscular brutes covered in filth. Their skin was greyish blue and the fangs coming from their mouths pointed upward. Some had hoops in their ears and gruesome tattoos and scars covered their bodies. They hooted and chanted angrily. One, the leader, gestured violently at them with a curved scimitar to hustle them on to the other side of the ford. Coming together they began wading through the current.
Asmalinde took her great bow from her saddle and quietly pulled four arrows from her quiver. She smirked as she nocked an arrow and pulled the string to her cheek. The other three were in her draw hand to enable her to shoot quickly. She aimed at the swarthy leader gesturing wildly for his troops to hurry. She released the arrow and instantly drew another back to her cheek and let it go. In the blink of an eye all four arrows were loosed and each found a target. The leader was down on the water pulling at the slender arrow in his throat. The other three targets had fallen in the water as well. Asmalinde rarely missed.
She flipped her shield off her back and drew Varyando from its sheath. The blade flashed a violent blue due to her proximity to the orcs in the water. Almost instantly she was among them before they could respond. The elleth smashed an orc in the face with her shield and spun to remove the head of another. Black blood smoked as it hit the water. Recovering from her swing she made short work of the last three. She squatted down and took the badge off of the dead leader to show the guards of Imladris when she arrived.
Not wanting the water to be any more fouled than it was, Asmalinde dragged the bodies onto the shore to await the carrion eaters of the wild. She trekked back to her horse and fastened her bow to the saddle, leaped into it and crossed the ford. The trail leaped skyward in a series of switchbacks and led to the highlands of the Trollshaws. She camped one more night and the next morning rode through the gates of Imladris and down into the area of the Last Homely House.
