Fields of Fornost

Hithfaerwen quietly looked toward Minas Vrûn. Her arms crossed over her chest and her middle, index, and thumb drummed on her right bicep.

Ynel takes a breather below the cliff, after sliding it down. She looks ahead, and around, and listens. No ghostly sighs. No gloaming wights in sight. She spends there a moment to gather her thoughts after the previous fright and compromize.

The sun had sunk beneath the far off mountains of Emyn Uial by now, bathing the sky in fantastic shades of orange, scarlet, and purple. Esteldin lay somewhere beneath him, hidden among the hills and trees. The world seemed at peace. It was hard to believe the fear that had truly taken hold. Unless, of course, you looked to the north. The northern sky seemed darker than it ought to have been. As if a storm, was constantly building, and would soon break.

I have arrived.  Near death I have been for several days but I have arrived!  The Fields of Fornost lay before me covered in mist while I write from the ruined tower at the summit of Amon Raith.

Curgirion was a tall, great man with scruffy, dark hair and stormy, serious grey eyes. He was a man of seventy-one years, a young age for a Dúnadan but a full lifetime for a normal man. He was living in his home, Tinnudir which was in the land of Evendim, an encampment of the Dúnedain. He lived a normal, quiet life well quiet enough for a Dúnadan yet it all changed one day in July and that shaped Curgirion to be the Ranger he is now partially. And it started like this…