Yrill

The copper-haired elf took the silver arrowhead and held it up to the light of the forge, inspecting it with a keen eye. 

“How many?”

“Twenty.”

The smith’s lips twitched into a smirk.

“You lose twice as many in a single day, Dolthafaer.”

The Lord of the Arrow chuckled under his breath and dropped a small pouch of coins onto the table strewn with scattered notes, tools, and metal shavings. Sometimes he wondered how the foreman could find anything amidst this mess.

Dolthafaer was not sure how long he had been sitting on the porch, carving sticks into arrow shafts.  There was a neat stack of them at his side, and he was surrounded by (and covered in) wood shavings.  It was an easy task – repetitive, calming.  He was so absorbed in the work that he did not notice the sound of approaching footsteps. 

Dolthafaer was returning from an errand at the forge when he spotted her on the path ahead of him – Yrill, unmistakable even at a distance, dark of hair and moving with all the grace of a mountain cat.  She hailed him with her usual ‘captain!’ once the distance closed between them and he met her with a smile.

“Evening, Yrill.”

She bowed her head respectfully, but Dolthafaer tilted his to the side, taking note of her gear – black leathers, different from the muted greens and browns that she wore on the field.

Lilleduil would not have wanted to track Dolthafaer in a forest.  Could her friends have found him?  Most likely.  But to send a bear or lynx or perhaps even an Eagle to spy upon the Lord of Arrows would be dangerous, a violation of their bond with her.  Fortuitously, she actually happened upon him outside the Last Homely House.  She paused for a moment before approaching.

“Thendryt? I wanted to talk to you,” Lilleduil said, watching as Raolor walked away.  Thendryt turned his face towards her slightly, but still kept his eyes upon the Hammer.

“Outside,” he said.

Traitors! Defilers!

A storm raged in his mind. He felt his blood boiling, he heard the voices from the past, their chattering, their screaming and shouting rising again, until they reached the gates of his Fëa. And all the time, he saw him in front of the eyes of his mind:

Why all this to-do? he asked Dolthafaer.

Ost Ringdyr was over a full days travel by horse away from Glân Vraig.
Thendryt was riding slowly along the edge of a ravine. As the terrain became more treacherous, he dismounted and started leading Bovad.
The sounds of a voice brought him to a sudden halt. He drew his sword by instinct as he spotted the figure above him.
“A message, Man of the Warband, from Lord Dolthafaer!”
Female, had to be an Elf. An Elf with a bow, he noticed.
The arrow didn’t hit him, but was aimed at a tree a couple of meters in front of him.

The ruins of Delossad were usually never completely quiet. Birds nesting in the forgotten halls, or the wind howling through narrow passages usually gave the darkness character. Not tonight. Tonight, Thendryt heard nothing, save from his own boots and breathing. Even though he was wearing chainmail, he was usually able to sneak in the darkness. At least to an extent. But the silence that surrounded him was treacherous, and each little chain in his mail seemed to make some kind of crackle.