Company of the East Road

The cave yawned wide before her like the mouth of some slumbering beast. Deorla stepped into its gullet with blade in hand and eyes sharp in the dark. The scent of old fire, unwashed bodies, and rotted meat clung thick to the air. This was no mapmaker’s den. It was a nest.

Orcs. And not few.

OOC - Author's Note:

The following will collect a number of reflections or 'journal' (diary)-type entries by Lonoric, Archivist Third-Class, as he ventures eastward from the Shire out into the big world beyond. So far it has 4 entries, but will be updated periodically. Where other characters are mentioned, they are done so with their author's permission.

Entries so far:

Author’s Note: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided assistance on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written, and gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there.

Night fell upon Galtrev like a velvet shroud, and with it came the final flickers of torchlight along the crooked lanes. Deorla stood alone in the high corner of the old hill-fort, the wind teasing strands of her dark hair as she watched the lights blink out, one by one. The meeting had gone as expected.

Rauthan, ever the eager hound of older powers, had spoken boldly beneath the dark wood beams of the chieftain’s hall.

“The clans are ready. They remember the war—remember you. If you give the word, they will rally.”

The road through Enedwaith had grown too visible.

Deorla kept to the edges where she could—skirting ridgelines, walking dry creekbeds, ducking beneath the tall grass when riders passed—but there were too many travelers for her liking. Traders from the north, messengers on lean horses, even scattered Rohirrim scouts flying no banner. Every hour brought hoofbeats or voices. Every face was another set of eyes she didn’t trust.