windswept

Some few days after the company’s return from Angmar.

He pulled the tattered cloak a little tighter around him as he continued to trudge through the rain drenched terrain."Cursed land..." He muttered under his breath, looking over to his left to see the branch of the Greyflood that bent its way into the fell lands of Dunland. Ioranir paused briefly to look back over his shoulder. The fog from the Dunbog still gracing itself eerily upon the face of the marshes therein.

Soft light from a setting sun danced along the edges of the tall grass as it swayed. A breeze moved it, almost melodically so. A late summer's warmth laid on his skin as he turned and looked around. 

A flutter of a green cloak alerted him to the one some odd steps before him. Unhooded, watching, his hands laying still at his side as if they never needed to grasp a weapon.

Galtharian poked his head into the room, glancing around the dusty room cautiously before opening the door fully. His face lit up as he saw the figure inside. He dashed in, unwrapping the parcel he was carrying and setting down the several bottles on the top of the papers and maps on the table. He grabbed two empty mugs from the nightstand next to them, hopping over the books that were stacked all over the floor. 

Worthy of Song 

When the hammer falls, back our enemy crawls! When the hammer quakes, Orcish cowards’ bones will break! When the hammer cracks, and it beats their armies back! When the hammer’s boom, sends the monsters to their doom! When the hammer falls, when the hammer falls! 

“Ye won’t make it.” 

A melodic chuckle escaped the figure as it fell softly into the tall grass from it's refuge upon the treetops. The bear that was pursuing him had gone limp, punctured with several arrows. Galtharian looked up, meeting the eyes of the archer, unable to hide the almost guilty expression in his face.

You really messed up now, Crownlight.

The young Silvan cursed his own antics silently, biting his lip, daring not to make a sound. It was quite a curious scene to behold: the small form of the wood elf covered in mud and dead grass fazed between the tents of the Yrch camp, not a step to be heard as he moved, his muddied robes matching the dirt beneath him. 

The letter is neatly folded, the visible side only being labeled with "For Ninimil" in small script. It sits atop the heavy covers decorating a certain patron's bed, presumably having been left there while the room was empty. Once unfolded, the page shows a carefully written note, the handwriting hinting it was written by a scholarly type or someone who has sent one too many letters.