Estarfin

Below our camp lay the Gravenwood, and when we first arrived there, I was mightily heartened to see its pines and majestic oaks and many white birches, and from a distance, I thought its tall, straight, good-looking trees suited me. I do not know why it is called the Gravenwood by the Ranger-folk, but perhaps it is because the Wildmen abuse the bark of its trees for their barbarous carvings.

Yesterday I was scouting when the others moved towards the woods. I was surprised to find them in a place where I did not expect – a mixed camp of rangers and rohirrim, and apparently a ranger woman had led them there. I rejoined the others there and fell asleep. In the morning I woke up with a wet touch of something when a horse was licking my face.

I am lying on the ground somewhere in Dunland, trying to sleep next to some of the House of Vanimar, instead of my comfortable bed in Rivendell or Lórien. So how did this happen? When I first entered the house, the people I met after Lord Anglachelm were of the Order of Hammer. When the events started to go rough on them, I felt like I needed to make myself useful for them as a warrior that I am.

Tonight I sit sleepless, and look into the night about me, dark, terrible things lurk there, and often the dread comes over me, that I feel my reason is overpowered, and my senses are bewildered. Abandoned to evil spirits, we are, we who followed because duty demanded it, because we swore to serve. How can we believe that our well-doing has availed anything? All our labors have met with failure, all good for nothing. We only seem to fill up every place with our trouble and strife. Behold the works of the proud Noldor!

His heavy boots crunched slowly along the pile of scree at the bottom of the hill as he trudged after the others. There was no spring to his step, no sense of the furious purpose he had possessed only hours before. He had been robbed of his relentless drive by the demands of battle and the anger that had burned inside of him like a consuming flame. For now his hatred has been assuaged, quenched in the blood of these lowest of Men. For what are the Men of this land but little more than mindless beasts? A land of Men looked down upon even by the other Kingdoms of Men. Gondor, Rohan.

Parnard lay in a half-dream, his thoughts back in Imladris, beside the warmth of the fires. Earlier that day, the elves reached a ruined dwelling, roofless, its timbers brittle, charred. Yet another farmstead, burned down to the foundations. Even in this vast wilderness, hundreds of miles from any elvish settlement, those savages had found them, and had cut them down a few feet from their doorstep. Gnawed bones lay scattered around. When the scent of slaughter is wafted on the breezes, bands of hungry Wargs hasten from every side to the feast.

The grey light of dawn did little to lift his spirits as he shivered and brushed the morning dew from his armour, feeling the cold water soak into the leather of his gauntlets as he did so. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looked around the camp searching for the remains of a fire to warm himself with. Seeing nothing, he cursed to himself and stood slowly, stretching his limbs and testing his shield arm. It still felt weak but it was not seriously damaged at least. He peered around at his companions; some were sleeping still, a few were sitting and sorting through their gear.

The fairest gift of strength is clemency

If the weak offend;

So kindly do not punish me

For having the fault of a friend.

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