Misty Mountains Campaign

Dolthafaer crouched over the corpse of a goblin lying face-down in the snow.  Two arrows protruded from its back – one was broken, perhaps tread upon by its own brethren as they fled the mighty company of Vanimar and Warband, but the other was intact.  He yanked the unbroken arrow free from the corpse and bit back a wince as he felt an answering stab of pain in his shoulder.

Manadhlaer sinks into her meditation position with great effort tonight. Anyone spying on her chambers would see her on her knees this night, having changed bodily arrangement in the hopes of changing her seemingly unstoppable visions.

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. 

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.

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.

Well, Diary, do you know that I had written nearly all of one of your big pages, and then I spilled ink on it! The leaves are thick, but not all the blotting-sand I had would remove the stain from what I had written. This seems to me less of a bad omen than merely tiresome.

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.

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.

To the Lord Ambassador of Bar-en-Vanimar Parnard,

Diary, all manner of strange things have taken place in the last few weeks, beginning with the feast we enjoyed alongside Loth i Lonnath and some members of the Warband of Imladris.