Mirkwood Elves

“Ready?” Duirronith laid a hand on Barangolf’s shoulder. Before them a raft bumped gently against the riverbank, already burdened with the wines and apples they intended to trade in far Celondim.

Only a few days time and already the memory of the frigid climes of the Misty Mountains had begun to fade. Rest and food -- hearty <i>meals</i>, not lembas or dried trail food -- did wonders for the restoration of both body and soul.

Two horses stumbled down the path from the Misty Mountains, their riders slumped over saddles in exhaustion.

 Morwen Halloth stood stiffly at the end of the rank, the top of her head reaching the level of the sister to her left's right shoulder. The archery instructor, a humorless man who had marched on the Black Tower with King Oropher surveyed his charges with his stony countenance, sable silken robes shimmering as he strode past the formation of girls. Stopping before Morwen, his left eye caught hers, causing the girl to swallow. “At how many paces do you engage the enemy over open ground, recruit?” the master barked.

     In the foredawn, the sudden ringing of hammer on forge woke the roosters at the fortress of the eglain, Ost Guruth. Once a lynchpin in a chain of garrisons built to safeguard the great road twixt the Misty Mountains and the sea, the armories, barracks and feast halls were now give over to a mix of refugees and mercenaries. The high desert uplands all about were near overrun with orc-folk and packs of wargs.