We are stood here in the beating rain, four of my kinsmen amongst the ruined pillars as statues of old. Indeed, several of the brigand-folk below have wandered past the old masonry, mistaking our stilled forms for the likeness of bygone kings or sentinels. Our cloaks are useful here, blending seamlessly with the hues of night, scrubbed against the barks of trees and the soft earth that we roam by so as to hide our scent. We watch and we wait. Our senses become aligned with the stones of our forefathers, the rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain our silent war chant. The tension is palpable, and even the wilderness has fallen quiet in our presence.
Halbar stirs for but a moment, and his brooch glints from afar in the distant firelight. The brigands notice and a hushed investigation ensues. He regards me with a wry smile, slinking back in preparation. How he likes to lure them. And so they approach warily, now scrutinising the apparent statues.
We strike, hard and fast. Perhaps too fast, so as to warrant a moment’s pity for these wild brigands. But it is necessary, for we are too few and one loss of my kin is a heavy blow to all. The knife work is swift and clean; to them we are merely a myriad of green and grey hurtling over the encampment in a spray of water, tearing them down. The Bree-folk deem our skill unnatural, and 'queer'. I can see why. Yet, for all the folk-lore, we are nought but Men. Men, admittedly, not withered by age as others and so we are blessed and burdened with many long years of honing our skills, without the hindrances of middle-men’s relative ails.
Ost Baranor this place was called of old, as Dúnisthil surmises, it was perhaps one of many forts that lined the great wall, along the east road. I see the reverence in Halbar’s old eyes as he looks upon the likeness of our first Chieftain. Ranion stands watch as we explore, his silence mirroring our grim mood. He seldom speaks, if at all, though I see the rarest look of angst he gives Elgaraen. She seems too interested in foraging through the enemy’s supplies. A practical woman and admirable, but she is young, and has yet to feel the heritage as keenly as us.
Water. Everywhere we look, the sky born water beats against the faded star motifs upon the walls, hailing down upon the campfire’s flames which spit in retaliation and even a voice, hoarse and withered beneath my feet, calls out for water. I look down and see one of the brigand-folk, spread eagled upon the ground and pierced by a single arrow. I did not look to see whether it was born from my quiver or Elgaraen’s. A good shot, regardless. The wild beast within my chest recedes, and the wearied man takes its place. I kneel down in my humility, grasping his offered hand. He asks for water once more, and so I oblige. I feel the mingled understanding and silent protests from my kin as they watch. I care not. To tear a man down is easy, but to treat him as a friend during his last breath, to show him compassion and mercy- that is what separates us from them. And so he drinks from my water skin, a wordless thanks in his eyes as they latch upon my silvered star. He receives the gift of Men, and I am wearied for it.
