Vanimar

It was four days after Galdorion's strange dream and things in the real world was going even worse.

Carmacil, Turyamir and Galdorion together with eleven others were the only survivors of the company of 38 strong Malledhrim company. These were particularly battle proven veterans except Galdorion, each of them were true ''snaphaners'' in hunting. Their hands were relentless and minds were unforgiving. 

Of late it seems that time has taken wing, that we who so recently returned to our beloved Thamas Lorn must again make plans to journey far from home.

Cirdamir reminded me a legend I read as a child. The story of Gurthang. So many similarities.. but is this an age for such powerful artefacts to manifest their good or evil power? Would the sword of a random Noldor soldier possess such spell? I was wandering Duillond when I saw Reiven again. Likely or not if Cirdamir saw such similarities I should warn her.

While the sword was catching the light of the day, resting now on the closed lid of the chest Reiven reminded me the day the Sword was lost, as I could forget it myself. Years ago, she was overwhelmed and tormented by something evil that struggled to control her. She had seek wisdom and help in Rivendell but no one yet gave her an answer. And one day, a elf she recognized from dark dreams attacked her on sight. Was the strength and fast reaction of Veryacano that saved her, for he disarmed the attacker and threw the weapon in the Falls of Imladris.

In Falatlorn, where even before I came to know of it, a death was sealing a long intricate chain of binds and revenges that was to bring together the path of a Rivendell born young scout and that of one of the last Noldor houses surviving to this age. The halls of Vanimar make a strong impression upon me still after all this years, with heavy armor and weapons adorned on walls, along with maps and exquisite paintings.

Inside of me I can feel only cold… Not because of the freezing waters flowing around my legs of the stream but the shadows casted around me…

I can feel the burning on my wrist once where the mark was. It’s not burning with fire but ice this time…

I can hear the call of long lost souls more than I hear living…

Nocking an arrow and trying to calm himself down, Galdorion crawled out from the mud and looked at the forest. He and his companions heard a crack coming from at least fifty paces away and considering the situation that they are in, they had every right to be concerned.

Not two days ago orcs had produced an unexpected flanking move which proved disastrous. Their camp was discovered and torn, forced the elves to retreat back to the lines closing to the shore and caused many casualties. Among them the captain Andalad.

     Company is resting deep in the forest in a chilling afternoon in September, Mirkwood.

     It was Galdorion's eighth day in the patrol. He did end up here despite the ruling of his own house and traditions, and even the tears of his beloved Rainith. The latter had more devastating an effect  then he could ever imagine, but in his mind what he was doing was righteous.