Dunland

The pillars of black smoke funneled together into the sky like a cluster of spears jutting into the earth. As Jonn reached the top of the last rocky hill, he saw where those “spears” converged: the small village where he had stayed peacefully for the past week. At the point where the spears of smoke ended, the fires began, flowing out like blood from a deep wound. Grass, straw, wood, and clay were the primary materials used to build the small group of crude huts making up the village. Everything burned or crumbled under the blazing heat.

Jonn wiped the blood off his blade using the vest worn by one of the handful of slain half-orcs lying around him. He curled his lips at the sight of the liquid; an unsightly sort of blackish-red, like a man's blood after it had dried, but this was still wet. After sheathing the sword, he stood back up from his crouch, grunting at the sudden pain. During the preceding battle, one of the louts managed to get behind him and strike him in the back. The armor didn't appear to be pierced, but he probably had a bruised rib.

After the successful attack, it was time for Ornessar and Calaerneth to return to Gondor. Katrandil, after all, was still missing, and Ornessar had to let King Elessar know of the success of the mission that was given to Nos Ornessë. A long way they took, and they travelled through Eregion, Dunland, Enedwaith, the Isenford, Rohan, and at last Anórien. It was a long journey, and it took many days for them to finally get to Minas Tirith.

Eirallyn was eating breakfast when Nelnardis returned from her early morning walk around Mirobel. There was nothing out of the ordinary, though she noted the clear skies and forgotten beauty of the view.

“Good morning, Eira,”