war

The flow of the Bruinen was but a gentle trickling thing here at the fjording of the valley. In comparison, a roaring tempest tore through Elrond’s mind. He had gone on ahead of his army, thinking time alone would calm his mind, and his mood. He could not escape the thought that his kin marched toward a meat-grinder, and that their bright armour would soon to be stained by the ruin being wrought across Eregion. 

Time for Action

Durthang burned quietly.

Not with open flame.
Not yet.

But beneath the fortress, hidden in forgotten maintenance shafts and abandoned furnace tunnels, death had already been planted by Deorla’s own hands.

The battle outside still raged.

Echoes in Udûn

Two months had passed, and Udûn had begun to whisper again.

Not with the crackle of forges or the grind of war machines—
but with the rumor of her.

Deorla the Herald.
Deorla the Returning Flame.

Some orcs swore they saw a pale silhouette stalking the borders.
Others claimed their patrols were cursed—missing men, silent blades in the dark, fires snuffed while their backs were turned.

Nothing decisive.
Nothing final.

The night air was thick and damp as Deorla reached the lowlands where Ithilien’s greenery withered into pale reeds and stagnant pools. A ghostly mist rolled over the earth, swallowing the moonlight until only her breath and the faint drip of water could be heard.

She had traveled for hours without rest—north, then east, always keeping the stars of Eärendil behind her. Her cloak clung wet against her armor, and the scent of rot grew stronger with every mile. At last she found a rise of broken stone above the marsh and made her camp there, too weary even to eat.

Knackered Neekerbreeker

The tavern of Knackered Neekerbreeker buzzed with the hum of conversation, but none spoke louder than the old man by the hearth. His voice, raspy and sharp like dry grass, carried above the clatter of mugs and laughter.

The lands of Anórien stretched before Deorla like a tapestry of shifting hues. Beyond the waterfalls and borders, the countryside was dotted with half-abandoned farms, their fields thin and tired from years of war. Gondor was healing, but the scars were deep, and such scars could be used.

The night was ink-dark, and only the breath of stars shimmered faintly above the towering forests of the Aldburg Wood. Deorla rode in silence, the hooves of her mount—the Harbinger—striking the mossy floor like low drums of war. The creature was bone-armored and wreathed in withered leaves, a beast born of shadow and decay.