Caleniel

Thendryt wiped the blood off his face. He stood and gazed for a moment, in the middle of the battlefield. They were outnumbered, but not outmatched. Not at all.
Khalis was in the middle of close combat a distance away from him. So was Lilleduil, an equal distance in the other direction.

(Written in a somewhat spiky, spidery, yet nonetheless legible hand)

Faorie,

I hope this letter finds you well-I hope it finds you at all! If it does, please tell Forostel that I gathered all the herbs on her list.  Since gathering is my strong suit and not processing, I put them into the hands of the healers of the House, who promised they would be properly prepared for distilling and set aside for the Warband’s use, so that she might deal with them upon her return.

What were they doing here? What was he doing here? He didn’t belong to the south, he belonged to the north. Towards Angmar. Thendryt didn’t understand. The real threat was to the north, not here in Dunland.
“Problem, Thendryt?” Khalis asked. They had been following the river southwards for days, yet there had been no sign of activity.
“No.” Thendryt replied. “That’s the issue. There’s no problem.”
“What do you mean?” Khalis asked.

Dusk was falling.  Lilleduil, refreshed by her swim, found herself in good enough humor to attempt to deal with the Man again.  She found him out by the gate of Maur Tulhau, sitting with his back against a rock and looking, if not exactly weary, disgruntled at the whole world.  Which seemed to be his default expression most of the time, when she thought upon it.

Giving him a look of carefully metered inquiry, she said, “Thendryt, I know you're not here to freshen up, but you ought to, and let me re-dress those wounds.”