We stay now with some men of Dunland, although I suppose they are not of Dunland any longer if they are here. Before today, we tarried two nights in the ruins of Caras Gelebren, at the edge of the Wadewater. It was Halfaeron who, practically as soon as we entered the ruins, was laid upon by a massive creature unlike any I have seen before. An Orc, yes, but one of such a great size that even the two of us could not kill it. Halfaeron’s blade took its arm, and it escaped into the trees. A band of these creatures has overtaken the ruins of the Elf-city. We spent a day scouting, and learned very little. The creatures speak of a master they call ‘Shar-key,’ a name which means less than nothing to anyone we have asked. They are even more hideous upon closer inspection, all squashed and malformed, with arms and armor of the crudest steel make. Each of them bears the same sign: a white hand-print. I found a few relics while we scouted the ruins – it is strange and painful to see them overrun so. But against so many of the creatures there was nothing the pair of us could do, and we are sent to a different ruined city.
Halfaeron is still as infuriating as ever. He does not help in any meaningful way unless treated like a very young child who requires constant supervision.
The Dunlendings are a reserved people – in that regard, not that different than the Dúnedain. We, too, keep to our own villages and are seen with suspicion by others. I wish it was not so. Some of the children taught me a game they play with balls and nets on sticks. If only the grown people were equally as free of learned wariness. I cannot blame them, I suppose, but I wish at times that I were able to live among ordinary Men.
But I was speaking of Halfaeron. He is impatient and heedless, and he thinks that his childish sense of amusement is endearing rather than infuriating. I do not understand why inconveniencing folk and being purposefully confusing is considered humorous. It really ought not to be, since it only distracts from our purpose. His games and ‘pranks’ will not keep these people safe nor drive the Orcs from our lands.
He did not bother to make dinner, and so we will have to go without. A fitting metaphor, I think, for his contribution to this mission overall.
