Parnard

A new day was here, and I was once again hunting for some game for us to eat. I caught a boar, and I took some ribs from it, cooking it on a fire. I cutted the ribs to separate bones and served it to others. Lord Tindir hesitated at first. ”No more sausages, please”, he said. ”Sausages? I suppose they taste like that”, I said. I knew that some Men used boar for sausages, so I understood why he would say so.

I am lying on the ground somewhere in Dunland, trying to sleep next to some of the House of Vanimar, instead of my comfortable bed in Rivendell or Lórien. So how did this happen? When I first entered the house, the people I met after Lord Anglachelm were of the Order of Hammer. When the events started to go rough on them, I felt like I needed to make myself useful for them as a warrior that I am.

While sitting next to a bush, waiting to see if something else would happen, my thoughts were  going in circle over the events of the day. I already completed a list of the plants and healing supply I used and I was currently contemplating just leaving the camp on my own in search for some heal herbs that were quite easy to find in any area with no extreme weather.

To lady Rainith and the folk of Imladris,

The grey light of dawn did little to lift his spirits as he shivered and brushed the morning dew from his armour, feeling the cold water soak into the leather of his gauntlets as he did so. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looked around the camp searching for the remains of a fire to warm himself with. Seeing nothing, he cursed to himself and stood slowly, stretching his limbs and testing his shield arm. It still felt weak but it was not seriously damaged at least. He peered around at his companions; some were sleeping still, a few were sitting and sorting through their gear.

The rain comes whispering, rising from the quiet of a still, cloudy day. I step off the porch, feeling the water gathering in the wet grass, running into my hair and over my face. The letter in my hand grows sodden, words running into trails of ink. The thirsty ground beneath my feet drinks deep in rain, welcoming the interlude. I move to my old, familiar, spot, standing above the waterfall, feeling the water slanting through the air, hearing it surround me. A childish gesture sends the piece of paper carelessly into the torrent beneath me, spinning out of sight in moments.

For some time, I have watched these elves in the valley of Imladris, where I lurked all the spring; speaking little to anyone. Most took no heed of me, for I did not encourage talk, and kept myself apart, listening for news of my brother. None was forthcoming. I began to think he was dead, and that by the end of the season, I must betake some other plan of action.

Talkale set down his thick stack of papers upon the teak writing desk, thumbing through them absently as he thought about the events of the evening. The names of various abodes of the Enemy flicked briefly before him as he thought of Parnard, that most dislikeable Elf that the Lady Rainith insists upon keeping at her side like an ill-tempered and poorly-trained hound. Yet she had asked him to treat Parnard with more kindness, and what choice did he have but to obey? Talkale scoffed to himself at the idea, for he was alone in the library at this late hour.

Sparks flew from the white-hot metal as the dark hammer struck it, the sound echoing through the forge. Ruineth leaned against the wall of the smithy, sweat pouring from her as she tried to catch her breath. Estarfin beat the hard metal with the heavy hammer, trying to flatten it into a blade. The metal cooled quickly though, turning from white to red to orange. He shook his head, thrusting the unfinished blade back into the forge.