Order of the Arrow

Captain Sáranassë of the Order of the Arrow was many things, as she stood in Lady Manadhlaer’s office. She was tall, and fair in her austere way, and armored. She was a daughter of the Noldor, a creature of stealth and odd habits. She was a hardened warrior and a keeper of secrets. The one thing Sáranassë was not, by any means, was amused.

Well, Diary, I suppose now it is true what people say, that one does not really know a person until one has lived with them.

That is, "with" in a very elastic sense -- for Captain Sáranassë has given me her own clean but spare bunk in Arrow Hall, and has taken to sleeping out of doors in a tree instead. She assures me she actually prefers it so. Rámarillë is clearly baffled by this. She circles one tree or another -- whether it be the correct tree, or no -- and honks very loudly into the air.

Luthelian rested her hand against her forehead, the dizzying effects of her head injury not entirely having left her.

“For the remainder of this mission, your duty is to watch the camp. You will not wander from your post.”

“But, my lord! That is unfair. I can help the others scout.” Surely, he would not make her entirely useless during their time in the Hithaeglir. Her head pounded more as her temper rose.

The icy wind came to meet her in great force as soon as she opened the heavy iron door to the outside. The storm still raged on, winds howling across the mountainsides, sweeping the snow across the landscape. Yet it was better than the confines of the inner keep, packed to the brim with warm bodies and stale air. Besides, it was nearly stifling to be in such close proximity with Tancamir any longer.

In the silence amongst the trees, a lone archer waits, still, and patient. All is quiet. The birds sing high in the trees, calling to the summer sun with their merry greetings. Finally, in one smooth, graceful motion, she raises her bow and draws back the string. A breeze from the lake lifts the leaves of the trees, sending some spinning slowly to the ground. With a movement as natural as breathing, the archer releases the string, standing motionless for what seems like a long moment, while her arrow speeds to its target.

From her post high on the cliff, Luthelian watched the fire in the camp crackle against the wood, throwing its heat across the sleeping figures. Some paces away, she saw Tancamir standing watch over the frozen lake and beyond. Her eyes followed his back more often than she would have liked since his return.

A dark shadow of fury sat perched in Luthelian's usual seat amongst the eaves above her sister's workbench. The sound of hammers beating against the anvil chimed the impending hour when the shadow would rise from its place as a raging inferno. Though her caramel hair lay straight and delicately around her face in the semblance of peace, the tight knit of her brows and the furious scratching of her quill betrayed her tempestuous mood.

My dearest journal,

I finally know what it is I have been searching for all these years! All those patrols on the moors, scouting for enemies and beasts, yes...but also more. Something tugging at my mind.

Up in the misty Mountains with my captain and fellow Arrows...I tasted it on the crisp air, heard it with the wargs' howls and felt it as the snow and wind nipped at my face. The thrill, the adventure of being somewhere I had never been. Danger waiting on the next hill. Every movement and sound, a sign that meant life or death.