Somewhere in Eregion

A flock of crows circled the sky overhead.
Looking up at them from her hiding place under the hazel bushes shielding the hillside from unfriendly eyes, the elf frowned. Spies... searching, circling. For whom or what?
She drew her cloak about her, the dusty grey making her but another speck in the shadows of the grove. Out in the plain, the holly-trees were colouring the landscape with bright clusters of red berries now that summer was drawing near its end. They rustled in a breeze speaking of early autumn rains, of cold creeping up from the rivers of the south. The grass was burnt and brown, dusty where the sandy ground below was exposed. It was silent, the cawing of the crebain the only birdsong heard nearby. The land felt watchful, tense. Enemies were on the move. The yrch, unchallenged now in the south, were becoming bolder. The scouts in the wilderness were bringing back reports of movement, yet to what end they could not tell. It was as if the whole land was holding its breath, waiting for the coming storm.
The elf expanded her senses, meditating, waiting for the moment of decision to present itself. What shall we do with the refugees, the prisoners when autumn comes? Autumn rains shall aid the enemy, making it harder for us to support our lines. But we cannot act rashly. Our enemies have the advantage in numbers, and supplies. We must strike when we are ready, and on our terms. We must strike at the mind, not the limbs. We must wait for the right moment.
The wind changed. Suddenly, the motionless figure came back to life, stood up in a fluid motion as if she had only been resting for a moment. She pulled back her hood, gazing upward, nodding.
Her steps brought her north, then west. Following her intuition, she followed a line of boulders littering the landscape, staying in the shadows of the rock.
A call above made her look up. Crebain, again. They were close now, but disinterested. Instead, they circled close by, waiting, following. A fresh kill? She sped up, following them.
A feeling of danger made her skin crawl, but she ignored it for now. The shadows and her Elvish attire would have to be all the protection she required for now. She was needed.
Pressing closer against the rough rock surface, she listened to her surroundings. Yes... a horse walking ahead, coming towards her. It was trotting slowly, its steps heavy - carrying a rider.
She let it come so close she could almost touch it before she allowed herself to stand up and speak. But she had already recognised the steed.
"What news from the south, Master Matheric?"
The man did not answer. He sat in the saddle slouched forward, his face graven and pale. In the light of the sunset, she could see the stain of blood darkening his tunic and the flank of the mare. He was alive, but holding on to the saddle only by sheer force of will.
As Nimlith hurriedly took the horse's bridle he slumped to the side, gliding off the horse into the Elf's arms.
"Betrayed..." he managed. "Orcs..."
His eyes closed, exhaustion finally overwhelming him. Nimlith sighed and pulled her friend to safety, into the shadows.