Yrill

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.

Dolthafaer frowned at the still form of Laelas – the name of the injured Elf they had come across in the darkness of Delossad – lying sprawled upon a thick bed of grass and half-closed flowers.  He was a Wood-Elf, friend of Barangolf and Tinurendis, one of those missing from the caravan that they had been searching for in the Hithaeglir. 

Dolthafaer halted at the head of the stairs and cast his eyes over the shadowed courtyard below.  To his staggering relief, Yrill was not to be seen.  She must have reached the shelter of the pillars.  He had not heard the sound of an arrow being released, but even so – this was an enemy that did not deserve to take down his huntress.

There were Men of the North in the Trollshaws. 

Dolthafaer had not been expecting trouble on this routine patrol.  It had simply been an excuse to leave the Valley for a day or two and stretch his legs over familiar paths.  He had asked Yrill and Luthelian to join him almost as an afterthought; he wished to see how his most troublesome recruit was improving, and he knew better by now than to leave Yrill behind when there was even the smallest chance of adventure.

The eagle batted its golden eye and looked accusingly at him, as if it was Parnard's fault that it was so cold, and he was so far from the Valley, and so tired from roaming all night searching for him.

His left hand wavered in the air in front of the sharp beak as his right hand crept forward to remove the small scroll tied to its leg.

"Confounded bird!" he cried out, as the eagle nipped at him again and again, and struck him full in the face with its wing.

No prisoners! No mercy!

Remain within the keep, he had told them.  Rest.

A simple order. 

Clear as crystal. 

A storm had been brewing – always perilous, this far East in the Hithaeglir – and up until that point, his scouts had been working tirelessly, alternating between watch and patrol.  There had been no need for extra eyes in a blizzard.  He had wanted them to take the opportunity to rest, regain their strength.

Yrill had disobeyed him. 

Tancamir had disobeyed him. 

“Annunghil, Ráolor, come with me!”