Misty mountains

The cold breeze that never seemed to seize tried to steal the cloaks they wore. Snowflakes kept falling, in a fashion Himwen was unaccustomed to. Sort of sideways. It made everyone sidle closer to the fire and what little warmth it could bring. Still awakening from the uncomfortable short rest from the night before, she started dispensing the tea Sargiel had brewed during her watch. The flavour was strong and perhaps a little bitter, but it was welcome all the same. Annunghil reported about a female elf who had scouted the enemy territory.

The warhammer on his back moved.

It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible but restless, terribly restless.

In the silence amongst the trees, a lone archer waits, still, and patient. All is quiet. The birds sing high in the trees, calling to the summer sun with their merry greetings. Finally, in one smooth, graceful motion, she raises her bow and draws back the string. A breeze from the lake lifts the leaves of the trees, sending some spinning slowly to the ground. With a movement as natural as breathing, the archer releases the string, standing motionless for what seems like a long moment, while her arrow speeds to its target.

My dearest journal,

I finally know what it is I have been searching for all these years! All those patrols on the moors, scouting for enemies and beasts, yes...but also more. Something tugging at my mind.

Up in the misty Mountains with my captain and fellow Arrows...I tasted it on the crisp air, heard it with the wargs' howls and felt it as the snow and wind nipped at my face. The thrill, the adventure of being somewhere I had never been. Danger waiting on the next hill. Every movement and sound, a sign that meant life or death.

The fever is starting to leave my body and mind.