Cardanith

The pounding of her feet resounds like the drums of war resounds like the beat of her heart burning in her breast. Smoke and ash chokes out the sky above and holds it in wretched darkness. Not even the slender rays of silver moonlight break through the thick clouds to offer the favor of the Valar upon the sight of this war, where fair fey fall and fairer are sundered.

This letter is written in Sindarin, with a rather messy hand trying to be neat. At some points, the page is splotched with dried tears.

Naneth,

Imladris, after the return of the Windswept from Angmar

The page is filled with barely legible notes in shorthand of a conversation overheard, followed by a fragment of story draft in clean, neat letters.

"Banter... yes, I know of this."

Cardanith said as he leaned closer to the Table while casting his gaze over at Galtharian who had placed the elf's drink of choice down before him. All the while the scowl adorning his face almost forced itself to appear as a smile as he looked to Baralinion.

The growl almost seemed to echo inside the small room, followed by the click of the shears trimming the line close to the flesh. Not so gentle hands went to work to begin medicating and suturing the numerous wounds that the man had accrued upon his adventures in stalking his favored prey. 

"You're sure it was him?"

The voice echeod from the nothingness of the other end of the room that had been drapped with cloth from the cieling and walls to hide whom ever hid behind them. 

"Is he really going to be there? The Cardanith?" 

They finally found a place to rest. Within one of the ruined structures within Carn Dum, the two were huddled around a small fire, draped in their traveling cloaks. 

“Ye know, for a Elf-Warrior in a shoddy piece of plate, yer not too bad, laddie.” 

Cardanith stood in a vast sea of grey. The sand underneath his feet gave way, shifting under his weight, his boot sinking in the ground. A bloodied spear looms tall in his hand, this point of silver, tainted by crimson. No mantle adorns his shoulders, and a faint yearning, a calling beckons him to the foulest of places. To Iron and stone. To a place where all withers, and where, bound in rusted chain, awaits an oath sworn long ago.