Half-orcs

Jonn stretched out his limbs, preparing for his first morning constitutional in far too long. It had been some six weeks since receiving the injuries that required him to recover for so long, and he had done his best to heed his elf-healer's orders not to push himself. The rest was necessary to make sure he mended properly, but when he tried hefting his large shield and felt how much heavier it seemed than before, he realized enough was enough. It was time to start getting back into fighting shape.

The air was filled with early Spring's breeze, warm and refreshing. Askelin, Ealstan and I arrived first, with Arindiis coming in last atop her steed.

The pillars of black smoke funneled together into the sky like a cluster of spears jutting into the earth. As Jonn reached the top of the last rocky hill, he saw where those “spears” converged: the small village where he had stayed peacefully for the past week. At the point where the spears of smoke ended, the fires began, flowing out like blood from a deep wound. Grass, straw, wood, and clay were the primary materials used to build the small group of crude huts making up the village. Everything burned or crumbled under the blazing heat.

Braigion paid little heed to the tall elf riding ahead of him; the Avar merely sulked in frustration and sadness as the crazy horse he was forced to ride followed behind. It was a little better than being on foot, where every step would be extremely painful as a result from his foot nearly being chopped off by a bear trap. It started in the middle of the night, and Braigion was off hunting by the cover of darkness. The higher ones’ camp was a fair ways to the west, so he would not be seen and hopefully undisturbed by what seemed to be hunters…

                I chose to travel near the red horn pass, to ensure no fell creatures of the east spill over into these lands. The mountain wolves already dwell in the elf-vale, it would be good to know what path they traveled, or better yet, put an end to their deeds.

Five figures stepped into the ruins of the once great tower named Barad Eithel. They entered the ruins of Fornost through the gate waded through small wetlands that had formed just outside of the tower. Four of the visitors were clearly half-orcs by the way they walked and acted. The figure that walked in the middle of the group was shouting commands to them: “Loot the bodies! If you find any rings bring them to me, you can keep the rest as long as you can carry it!” The voice came from none other than Tidhelm, who was now wading through the shallow and murky water.

Night fell over the Bree-land in a blanket of frost. Streaks of dark cloud smothered star and moon like ribbons of black. But at the foot of Bree-hill many lights, orange and warm, were winking from the windows of the village houses; and in the night air there was the faint echo of merriment and cheer, and singing and dancing, as the Men of Bree celebrated Yuletide.
But beyond the fenced dike, and into the gloom of the fields, there was gathered in silence a host of dark figures. In a black rank they stood, listening to the mirth of far away Bree, until one of them spat.