Vanimar

Remain within the keep, he had told them.  Rest.

A simple order. 

Clear as crystal. 

A storm had been brewing – always perilous, this far East in the Hithaeglir – and up until that point, his scouts had been working tirelessly, alternating between watch and patrol.  There had been no need for extra eyes in a blizzard.  He had wanted them to take the opportunity to rest, regain their strength.

Yrill had disobeyed him. 

Tancamir had disobeyed him. 

He fumbled with the silver and emerald clasp, cursing quietly as it kept slipping from his fingers and coming undone despite his best efforts. In frustration he shrugged the dark green silk and black velvet striped arming jacket off of his shoulders and sighed; looking at the armour pieces carefully laid on the table before him reminded him of his own weakness. A warrior that can no longer dress himself for battle is not fit to wear such armour.

Dolthafaer knew that he was treading upon thin ice – an analogy that seemed fitting in the bitter cold of the Hithaeglir.  A spark of uneasiness had lit in him the moment the Man had turned his back on him in the snow, his final words twisting in the wind. 

Choose well, Lord of the Arrows.

They had covered a decent amount of ground in a day, Tancamir reflected drily. Luthelian was spirited, and their tempers often clashed, but they had still managed to make some progress on their scouting trip. There was no sign of the frost-giant Lord Dolthafaer had seen by the frozen pool a day before, but they had seen goblin-fires on the heights, and  found goblin-arrows  and signs of a scuffle on the path leading east.

The sound of running water met the scrape of steel against bone as Tancamir crouched by a small streamlet. He held an enormous curved horn in one hand, scraping flesh and fat from it with the blade of his dagger. It was easily the length of his forearm, cruelly ridged and with a pointed curl at one end. But it was surprisingly light and hollow, weighing only a fraction of what it seemed. He grinned to himself as bits of flesh fell off the end of the horn, until it was polished and clean. Swiftly he plunged the horn into the ice-cold water, then drew it out and laid it on the snow.

The cold was as bitter as ever, the mountain passes as inhospitable as before. That much Tancamir remembered from the last expedition the Arrows had made to the Hithaeglir. But now they travelled slowly, scouting the path ahead so that the Hammers and other members of the company might have a secure path to tread. And there was  much stopping, and camping, and assigning of watches. He scowled. If the Arrow were not so encumbered by the progress of the others, they could have made it halfway to the Southern High Pass by now.