Anglachelm

In the morning I rose, and went to the Hall of Fire to dine with Sogadan.

Deep within the valley, beyond the unnatural darkness where the silhouettes of long dead men dwell in absolute silence, candle light flickered in the old abandoned hut on the far side of the valley. It was a very small hut, its wood rotten and barely standing and inside full of dust and spider webs. The old wooden chair groaned every time Veryacano shuffled, as if it were about to collapse. While the rest of the group sat around the fire outside, there alone he sat through the night, writing his account of what transpired on his search for Anglachelm on his little note book.

My Lord,

My spirit was not haughty, but it was proud. In stubborn silence, I would sit under the dark pines, wondering why I was so ignorant that I could not answer the questions of children. I knew a few things, but what I did not know was immense. I wished to learn more about the world and see what lay outside the borders of my homeland. So I ventured forth, without any idea of what I would find. Exceedingly foolish it seems to me now, but at the time, I thought it was the best path.

The rain comes whispering, rising from the quiet of a still, cloudy day. I step off the porch, feeling the water gathering in the wet grass, running into my hair and over my face. The letter in my hand grows sodden, words running into trails of ink. The thirsty ground beneath my feet drinks deep in rain, welcoming the interlude. I move to my old, familiar, spot, standing above the waterfall, feeling the water slanting through the air, hearing it surround me. A childish gesture sends the piece of paper carelessly into the torrent beneath me, spinning out of sight in moments.

I had just entered Lord Elrond’s great hall, and was making my way to the Hall of Fire, when a hand darted out from behind a pillar, catching me by the wrist. I was shocked to come face to face with my brother Culufinnel!

The words sounded strange issuing from my mouth, yet still I gave voice to them. I urged for restraint, for her to remember who and what we are. The honour that we have fought so hard to win, and to keep; that cannot be so easily discarded. Who remains upon this darkened shore that is mightier in deed or in battle than us? The count is few indeed. Yet this night we have fallen far from such lofty claims, from glory and honour
to something far darker, far less fitting for those of our illustrious history.

It begins like this.

Slow, measured strokes ease the blood from the blade. The flickering firelight illuminates a face as smooth and expressionless as a statue. Long ages ago, she had wept during this ritual – purging kindred blood, night after night, from a blade stained with terrible deeds, wondering whether anything could be worth the destruction they had caused. But it is many years since Nirhen has allowed herself to weep.

Now Rainith has told us of her wounding during her brave battle with the Orc on the very borders of the wood, and how she stood between them and her Malledhrim friend, and suffered grave injury, almost losing her life, from the look of her. I am worried that she is too weary to travel, but she said she was not.