Dolthafaer

“Who goes there?”
Thendryt threw a glance upwards. A guard stood atop the southern portcullis of Glân Vraig, holding a torch.
The ride from Delossad had taken over a day, and Bovad looked eager to be done with it.
A second guard came into view. With wide eyes he seemed to recognize Thendryt, and hurried out of sight.
“Open the gate, it’s the Watcher!” Thendryt barely heard it.
Slowly Bovad walked into the fortress. The guard who’d seen him first was down so quick you’d think his life depended on it.

The ruins of Delossad were usually never completely quiet. Birds nesting in the forgotten halls, or the wind howling through narrow passages usually gave the darkness character. Not tonight. Tonight, Thendryt heard nothing, save from his own boots and breathing. Even though he was wearing chainmail, he was usually able to sneak in the darkness. At least to an extent. But the silence that surrounded him was treacherous, and each little chain in his mail seemed to make some kind of crackle.

Delossad.

Dolthafaer frowned at the still form of Laelas – the name of the injured Elf they had come across in the darkness of Delossad – lying sprawled upon a thick bed of grass and half-closed flowers.  He was a Wood-Elf, friend of Barangolf and Tinurendis, one of those missing from the caravan that they had been searching for in the Hithaeglir. 

Dolthafaer halted at the head of the stairs and cast his eyes over the shadowed courtyard below.  To his staggering relief, Yrill was not to be seen.  She must have reached the shelter of the pillars.  He had not heard the sound of an arrow being released, but even so – this was an enemy that did not deserve to take down his huntress.

There were Men of the North in the Trollshaws. 

Dolthafaer had not been expecting trouble on this routine patrol.  It had simply been an excuse to leave the Valley for a day or two and stretch his legs over familiar paths.  He had asked Yrill and Luthelian to join him almost as an afterthought; he wished to see how his most troublesome recruit was improving, and he knew better by now than to leave Yrill behind when there was even the smallest chance of adventure.

He glanced sidelong at Dolthafaer, who shrugged slightly, stepping back a pace to afford more privacy. Always discreet, the Arrow Lord, thought Parnard.

Thendryt closed his eyes as he tasted his first ale in months.

The Campaign in the Misty Mountains was over, and he was eager to return to the Coldfells.
Vanimar had lost an Elf. Not that he was overly surprised, it was a military campaign after all, but it seemed a big deal to the Elves. He hadn’t been at the funeral, he had no reason to. He just wanted to get out of here, as soon as possible.
He let his hand move up to his chest. The chainmail under the tunic felt heavy, even if the wound from Dolthafaer’s arrow was mostly healed.

Oh, Diary. Will the bleeding of my heart never cease.

I stood at the cairn today -- I go there daily, and speak to my darling of trivial events in the Valley, but today the remaining members of the campaign to the Hithaeglir returned. Each paid their respects in their own ways.