Sutwarden stood as a testament to the Edain presence from a previous age. The battlement wound around a natural spire overlooking the rich farmlands surrounding the bustling town of Bree. The recent drought had finally broken, and recent rains had washed the wind-cast dust from the ancient ruin and accentuated its faint stonework carvings, vaguely proclaiming glories long past and forgotten to all but the scholars, and to those whose immortal lives allowed memory.
Teahesto remembered, being an Elf of the Eldar. He recalled the Edain, Men from the east who had migrated west into Beleriand and the Elf kingdoms there. They were wild and tribal, but still endowed with an honor and nobility that, although primitive, led them to aid the Elves in their struggles against Morgoth. The Elf ran his ungloved hand over time etched Taliska symbols carved into the masonry, remembering the sounds of the lost language.
“Vigilance”, he read in the old tongue. The word stood out alone, as if some higher power had mercifully left it less worn by centuries of weather. But more recent activity had laid fresh scars across the word and other parts of the fortification. The nature of the marks implied the unnatural releasing of the elemental forces of lightening, fire, and ice. The pattern of the marks implied battle, one he was sure he had witnessed two evenings ago from a distant Ranger cabin across the fields sprawled eastward. Ranger and Elf were conferring on the recent divisions disrupting the raiding forces in the Wildwood, and as if to illustrate the discussion, the gloaming became punctuated with flashes and booms erupting from the old fort.
The two had complementary reasons for concern about enemies in the Wildwood; the Ranger with averting threats to Dunedain settlements; the Elf with vital access across Eriador to the Grey Havens. Teahesto was a Captain of Felegoth and had taken the responsibility of escorting Elves on their final journey across the lands of Middle Earth, heeding the call to sail West to Valinor. There was a time when two Elven ports could accommodate the journey, but Edhellond had been long abandoned as a functioning port, leaving Lindon the only place from which Elves may sail the Straight Road. The Bree-lands would be necessary to reach that port, and thus the rising threat of raiders also laid its shadow across the vital East-West Road.
The Elf captain peered carefully about the abandoned fort, puzzled by the absence of any dead, although there was plenty of evidence that blood had been let. Could it be that the opposing forces had simply driven each other off, only to return later to reclaim the dead? Or was this evidence of a different kind of battle, where one side was the forts occupants, and the other a singular storm of destructive fury. Teahesto recalled his recent rescue of Cutch Crane from the eastern base of Ost Barandor, and of the little man’s disjointed account of how he came to be there. Could it be that the man’s Elven grandmother, apparently a mistress of runes, had somehow survived her seemingly lethal encounter with a Wizard? That seemed unlikely, given Crane’s grisly account of her demise. Perhaps another such rune master raged about, seeking revenge, further complicating the confusion.
Teahesto shook his head. Speculation was just that and could answer no questions without the support or dissipation of factual evidence. He would continue his scouting and seek out the assistance of Claywick Cob, a bounty hunter of Crane’s acquaintance who was intimately familiar with the environs.
