Lusseriel was in the inn of the city, appreciating of the fire and warmth despite the number of drunken humans around.
For once she didn't plan to go spend the night outside the city. She was sitting at a table, nearest one of the window, the coolest area in the room.
It was warm enough for her in any case, and mostly deserted by the human side of the inn's population.
She looked around for her companions who were all either busy or already retired for the night and then turned back to her notebook.
"Today was a long day. I managed to repair, mostly Gléowine's harp. And I sacrificed my harp strings for it.
Not a big sacrifice currently.
As Gléowine got out of his alcoholic daze and jumped right to a hangover, I started playing. Not all my high pitched song list, I wasn't in the mood for it either. Just random tunes I remembered from various places.
My companions seemed to appreciate it better than Gléowine did.
I won't say he deserved it but I sort of think it loudly anyway.
Brunnadan summoned an eagle and apparently sent it to scout ahead Wildermore. The animal hasn't returned yet, to my knowledge.
Anyway, Gléowine got his harp back. And he sent us on the hunt of his discarded map.
That man I swear...
He gave his map to kids! KIDS! Does he even have a brain left or did his alcohol intake rot his brain already?
Who gives a precious resource like a map to random children?
Of course, we found a child playing around, who told us that another kid got the map and ran right outside the city walls, claiming he was on an adventure.
Rolegard rushed out after the child and we all followed.
The kids live here and should already know the danger there is to leave the defense of the city, but apparently this one missed his share of brain function.
A case of natural selection perhaps?
We arrived just in time to see the kid attacked by orcs and intervene.
That foolish thing looked enthusiastic at the sight and went as far as claiming: "My adventure begins! For Snowbourn".
Yeah, pretty sure that without us his adventure would have been cut drastically short. One could think stupidity had limits and survival instinct would have taken over by now, but apparently not.
In any case, a second orc attack had the kid throw the map at us and run back to Snowbourn. Finally a proof of intelligence from him. I was starting to wonder...
Good thing for that child that Rolegard had talked to rushed after him or he wouldn't have had a happy ending to his... Little "adventure".
As Andrahir congratulated Rolegard on a job well done, the conversation went to how the kids perceived our friendly hobbit... And he reminded us that by his people's standards, he was a teenager.
I know I can't force the issue... But am I the only one who gets the will sometimes to... I don't know... send him back to the Shire?
Not to be blunt but battlefield and teenagers, it's not a mix I appreciate. I get it when it's necessary and the situation is desperate, been there, done that, as they say, but nothing makes it necessary for Rolegard to be here at this time.
And what would his family think of him being here even?
Anyway, we returned the map to Gléowine... And then we rode to Harwick on our way to investigate why no communication came back from Wildermore.
Messengers always find a way. If they don't come back, it's that they're somehow prevented by force, dead or dying. I have little hope that we'll find an easy situation, alas.
And from Harwick, we met the Reeve, learnt that none of the men sent to Wildermore have returned, including the son of Aldor Harding, and then rode to Wildermore.
And in Wildermore, it's so cold that lakes are frozen solid. There's snow everywhere and the air itself is freezing.
Ardirien asked what could have caused this as it's very unlikely that it’d be natural, not in this area, not in this season, and not considering the fair weather in Harwick that's not that far.
Brunnadan told us he had never seen anything that could do that.
I did. I lived it once.
Himring was called the ever-cold for a reason, and it's not for its sun and warmth, and in the pass nearest to Himring blew a freezing wind that never stopped. And I wouldn't have called it natural then either.
I'm shivering still, and battling with my memories. It's... uncomfortable, I'll admit to that. At least, the good side of things, this time around I have no leader forced to follow the stupidest oath ever created? I think...
And Morgoth is still chained and gone from this world so there.
Articulated, clever, and all, I know. At this point I'm desperately hoping that no one will ever read that notebook of mine. I might have to burn it when I'm done with it.
We decided to try to find warmer gear. Andrahir mentioned he had fur in his pack, and Ilthirian, Brunnadan, Ardirien and Rolegard seemed to appreciate that greatly.
I left that arrangement to make for my companions.
Instead, I went and bartered with a woman here. Food is always good to exchange when people are in dire situation. I'll have to hunt at some point, perhaps, but dried meat in exchange for a robe to put over my current armor worked like a charm...
And it went a long way to get me some information. The weather came at a surprise for everyone. It came fast, took over and caused widespread destruction and damages to people, houses, animals and crops alike. It also came with loss of contact with various other settlements around. Orcs seem to attack the rare people brave enough to try and travel.
And I'm not sure whether the information will be useful at all.
Also, that chill is definitively not natural, and I'm afraid we're going to look for the source of it. If we do...
Well, at least it's not fire I suppose. Perhaps it's the force of habits from so long ago, but I find it easier to tolerate cold conditions than face fire and scorching heat.
Perhaps it's just that Himring despite the cold was a place of safety for so long while my first home was destroyed when that thrice be damned dragon invaded the Gap.
Though speaking of cold, Mrs Hops seems to be entirely unwilling to leave her travel satchel. I suppose it's too cold for her and perhaps I should see to barter some fur to line her pack..."
A draft came from the window, making Lusseriel shiver and it's by old ingrained habit that she started to hum a song in quenya, of Himring’s warm presence and promise of safety and home and gentle fire. A song that never failed to bring her warmth. A song she sang long ago in the once Hills of Himring with her companions, parents and husband.
Lusseriel grimaced as she noticed several people had turned toward her. She turned back to her notebook:
“I might have made a slight mistake. I didn’t plan to be noticed at all. Or for the men to hear me sing. I hope my companions didn’t hear at the very least.”
She then closed her notebook when a woman approached to ask about her travels, and deciding that had will to talk too much with the locals, she pleaded tiredness to retire.
She had put her notebook back into her backpack and didn’t pick it up again once in the room, for she had nothing to add about the day.
The rest would be far too many memories that she didn't care to remember right then.
