Garth Agarwen

Bromley woke up and looked at the door of the cage. One of his his cell mates was being dragged out of it violently and when he tried to hold onto the bars the hooded man in charge of the orcs slashed against his wrist making him let go. He looked at Bromley and licked the blood from the blade before sheathing it again and smirked.

Leaning against a high wall built by Men in centuries past, Lômizimril considered her options. What was she thinking, walking up to the Red Pass and declaring herself as Mornalpheth of Dol Amroth, then declaring herself later on as Dovirien?

She left Gorlakon sleeping soundly, her own slumber disturbed by thoughts that would not settle. Zorzimril slipped on a pair of leather shoes and a cloak over her linen gown, silently departing the tent. The fires burned low, most of the Creoth and Duvardain snoring where they passed out from too much ale. Others stood guard, with tired eyes and deep yawns. And there were those that watched that never grew tired or drunk.