Night fell upon Galtrev like a velvet shroud, and with it came the final flickers of torchlight along the crooked lanes. Deorla stood alone in the high corner of the old hill-fort, the wind teasing strands of her dark hair as she watched the lights blink out, one by one. The meeting had gone as expected.
Rauthan, ever the eager hound of older powers, had spoken boldly beneath the dark wood beams of the chieftain’s hall.
“The clans are ready. They remember the war—remember you. If you give the word, they will rally.”
But Deorla’s reply had been cold steel wrapped in quiet resolve.
“Not yet,” she told him. “When I have done what I must… when the fire is ready to be stoked—I will call. And you will gather them then.”
He had bowed—not entirely with disappointment, but with recognition. The time was not ripe. And Deorla walked her own path.
By midday she had crested a ridge and spotted what she needed—grazing across a wide and hidden pasture tucked between two low hills were dozens of broad, slow-moving beasts: mograws*1. Thick-coated, curled-horned cattle bred for endurance and meat, raised by Dunlending herdsfolk for generations. Their hooves thudded dully against the earth as they moved, placid and unaware.
Nightfall gave her the cover she needed. She crept into the field like smoke through tall grass. Two mograws fell without sound, her strikes precise and swift. She worked quickly under the moonlight, carving what she could carry, packing it in tight bundles wrapped in hide. The ground swallowed the blood before it could glisten.
By morning, the herd stirred uneasily, unaware they were diminished. Deorla was already gone, slipping into the nearby woods.
There, she spent hours combing brambles and undergrowth for what little the land still offered. Blackberries, blueberries, and even a patch of wild garlic near a dry creek bed found their way into her satchel. She set no fire, left no trail.
On her second day in Galtrev, she woke up rather late. Finally getting some rest she deserved. For half of the day she walked around Galtrev thinking about her past and future, as all people do when they have some time to spare. She also met few habitants and talked to them about little things that did not really matter to her that much, like weather and food.
It was late in the afternoon when she sensed it, a gaze upon her. But different one than usual, not hatred, but curiosity. It was an elf, standing near one of the houses - tall and silver-eyed, clad in soft grey and green, the sigil of a seven-pointed star upon his collar.
“Ascarnil, of the House of Lore,” he said with a slight bow. “I travel with the Dúnedain for a time. We follow the sons of Elrond. They are not far behind.”
Deorla’s gaze narrowed. She said nothing.
“I read it in your eyes,” he added gently. “You are not of them, nor of us. But you are remembered. The past clings to you.”
He glanced skyward, his tone shifting.
“My House gathers what knowledge remains—lost names, buried deeds, truths misremembered. We seek to know the old world before the new forgets it.”
His words were not threatening, but they hung with weight.
Before Deorla could press him further, a distant horn sounded from the west.
“Duty calls,” Ascarnil said with a nod. “Walk with care. These hills watch more than just travelers.”
He was gone in a blink—vanished into the brush, as silently as he’d come.
Yet his words stayed with her. If the sons of Elrond were near, the roads were no longer her own. She would need to move carefully, unseen.
The next morning, grey light poured down from behind a veil of high cloud. Deorla stayed hidden in her tent near few trees that Galtrev had inside the town. She was cleaning her knife and laying out her gathered food. The meat had been salted and wrapped tight, the berries sorted, and the garlic crushed into oil-dipped cloth.
By nightfall, everything was ready.
The last of the daylight slipped behind the mountains as she strapped her pack, fastened her cloak, and stepped onto the road—silent as shadow and colder than the wind.
The Gap of Rohan waited.
And beyond it, the next piece of her purpose.
*1 - Mograws are the cows near Galtrev - the name for them is self created for story purposes.
