A bitter, rampant wind rose above the northern swells of the great, raging sea; Belegaer.
The wind swept across the rolling undulations of the mighty, unforgiving ocean, whipping through the tops of the waves in bursts of salty spray and foam.
Further south the harsh northern wind blew, whistling past the towering icy burgs that stood solemnly in the swirling mists off the ice
Falling upon the flapping tents of Suri Kyla, the wind eddied and swirled in the snow as the tribes-people gathered their belongings and prepared their dwellings to weather the coming storm. A rosy cheeked child, clad in furs, ran through the snow to the protection of her calling mother as worried eyes, cast to the skies, anticipated the brooding tempest.
The heavens darkened.
On across the seemingly inhospitable realm, ‘cross mountains and canyons of ice and snow, swept the North wind until, seeking the defiant green of arboreal growth, it gusted through the snow clad coniferous forest, stirring a torrent of powdered sleet to veil the winter woodland in an icy shroud.
Olver tightened his cloak against the wind at his back and reigned in
He whispered her name on the wind; “Rhoana” and the wind swept over him, swallowing sound and the present in one foul swoop…
He had tried in vain to find her, any sign of her existence, but as if her light was known only to him, the harsh Northern lands had remained unyielding and her memory was all that remained.
There had been renewed raids on the Lossoth from some unseen enemy and it seemed their trust in the people from the south had waned in recent times. The winter had been hard, coming in prematurely, erasing any trails of passing. This and the language and culture divide made the task of discovering her fate nigh on impossible.
“She is dead, visitor of the south.”
These were the words, the translation, pieced together from what little understanding he had gathered of the strange northern dialect. The realization hit him hard; the words delivered now plagued him, repeating over in his mind, pronounced so bluntly and with a terrible apathy that shook him to the core, despite having feared the worse for some time.
Her maps and journals, held dear to him for so long as a symbol of the hope that she may still be alive, had been delivered back to her people; where they now belonged. He resigned himself to the stark, cold reality that he could do no more for her, he had failed her; she was gone.
He would go to Elhyas now, his father. There was but one path remaining for him; a journey to Gondor awaited to settle a debt, long since unpaid. All these years his father had lived with his grief, in turmoil and anger; his wife, Olver’s mother, had been cut down barely minutes after hiding her newborn babe in the woods.
The architect of this tragedy would finally answer for this unforgivable injustice.
With one last longing, mournful look to the north, he composed himself, grim and determined, urging
