War in the North

Brenten stood atop the Hill in silence, his sharp gaze staring at every detail of the ruin that stood in the valley ahead of him. He was suspicious. He and his men had been up in these lands for months now and many times before they encountered others who had the same purpose. The memory of almost having his chest pierced by arrows still haunted him, only a fat pouch of coin, a part of their earnings, could eventually convince the men he met on that day of the profit that could be gained if they were to join up.

                In the dark the rustling of bushes could be heard as Dinengel dashed through the forest. Heavily panting as the air passed through his scarred throat, Dinengel dodged around trees trunks and hurtled over shrubs. Some distance off the weighty cantering of heavy paws could be heard amongst a deep menacing growl.

          The dark was quickly approaching as Dinengel rode swiftly through the forested hillside. He had been riding for nearly four hours since his encounter with the Trev Duvardain tribesmen, and was now beginning to falter from his fatigue. He had managed to dress his wounded shoulder in an effective but crude fashion, though he was not sure how long it would last. Surely there would be a search party sent after him, and he had lost his sword in the scuffle at their camp.

Zorzimril's eyes blazed as she shouted at her men to stop the ranger, she knew it was one of the loathed Dunedain. He was tall and dressed in the colors of the forest, masked and hooded. The wargs snarled on their chains as the horses stomped and whinnied as one of them lost his tether and was stolen by the ranger. 

                A light rain pattered down as Dinengel was traveling west through the rocky hills of the Ettenmoors. Swiftly and silently, like a gust of wind, he passed between the low trees and bushes of the region. The rain water soaking through his heavy green cloak, and his boots sloshed across the muddy ground.

The victory was a small one yet the celebration was intense, there was nothing like the hate between those close and the Trev Duvardain were at war with their own clan. Smoke rose in thin tendrils from Donnovail, an ancient city in the heart of Fai-a-Khro that they had forced the Gallorg out of. Zorzimril licked the grease from her thumb, enjoying a slice from a haunch of boar. The meat was tough and stringy but it was something other than infernal peas. All the side dishes were made up of the legume, which had been cultivated with success in the land outside the city.

Stone colored eyes stared out at the barren wastes, lit by the flickering pale lightning in the ashen sky. Zôrzimril watched for movement, for her scouts have reported members of Trev Gallorg moving through the area. Those spineless cowards, afraid to go to war, hiding out in their dung hole village ready to flee to the arms of the enemy. She sneered at the thought, some had run down Ram Duath already though Augaire still stood. It was well fortified in but soon it would fall once her father rallied all of the Duvardain together.