Azrazor

The air in the Lower Ward was a thick reek of stinging charcoal smoke, heady with the savoury perfume of roasted lamb. Amidst the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of hammers on anvils and the persistent braying of pack donkeys, the glare of whitewashed buildings against the deep azure sky struck the eye with a blinding brilliance. Nearby, merchants haggled with frantic desperation, their voices rising like heat off the paving tiles.

Time flies.

Twenty nine… almost?

Onward, as silently as possible. No need to muffle the oars in such a heavy fog, they would not be heard. If the elves were using oars, as they occasionally did when the wind deserted them, they, too, went unheard. 

There were thirty one left. 

With the right winds it would take around five weeks to be back in Umbar Baharbel. With pursuit and attack from the Uinenlindë, out of Mithlond, it took a bit longer.

What did I think when I first saw Azrazôr? If I am honest, I am uncertain. He looks the part, he acts the part, and he feels the part. So why am I not elated?

Khahaynd thought about Zairaphel and her frequent mentioning of handsome men; clearly that was her weakness on full display, and she wondered briefly if her brother Naraal was handsome enough to hold the Sorceress's favor, so that she could gain something by it. “You have a traitor to Prince Imrahil?” she said to her, raising her glass of wine in silent congratulation. “That is most unusual and useful.”

The journey to Ethring was almost a holiday for Khahaynd. Not needing to use her skills to disguise herself, Zir or Tarih, she felt overflowing with energy and expectations. Only one rider passed her, and he riding a swift bay horse, and dressed like a messenger bearing the Steward’s livery. He did not stop at the sight of a beautiful woman garbed in brown silk gown and head covering, riding a noble black mare with silver mane and tail.