Fangs in the Gloom - Round 4

[GandalfOfBorg]

  Yes

[tomcat]

And ever shall we be at the ready, thought the Dúnadan.

As the wargs slinked into the night rain, Esgalwen wiped her blade clean of blood upon the coarse fur of one of her fallen foes. Wiping it down with her sodden cloak next, to remove what water she could, she slid it into its scabbard and gave a small prayer of thanks.

Bless you, craftsmen of the Eldar, for surely it is your work that has imbued this blade so, allowing me to stand with strength before our foes.

She often wondered at the elegant tracery upon Nimronyn's length - obviously the master-work of Elven white-smiths. But from where? Radagast had never told them much of the gifts each had been given, only Morirúsë, who was now named Arakánion, hinted at what the old wizard had done.

It seemed so long ago.

The Ranger lifted her eyes from the sword's scabbard and realized she stood in the pouring rain and that a voice called her.

"Esgalwen! Esgalwen? Come... it is done."

She turned to see Hathcyn beckoning to her to join him, as the men and women of the steading were now pursuing the comforts of the warm, and dry, longhouse of Ferthald. She gave the man a wan smile and moved to join him.

Entering the firelit hall, Esgalwen removed her cloak and moved to a place where the fire's warmth would help dry all that she wore. The Men of the Vale gathered together to both celebrate and mourn this victory, but the Ranger found herself once more apart.

[Telcontar]

  Doug nice call back! and it appears that Hathcyn has a nemesis ...

[tomcat]

Yes it does! And this nemesis may only wear the cloak of a wolf, maybe? 

We shall see.

[Telcontar]

The Longspear strode into the hall and grabbed a mug. Sitting upon the board he leaned his head back against the wall. The stoneware never touched his lips. There in the hall with the sun rising, a full mug of ale in his hand, he slept unmoving as the toil of the past two days and this moment of peace came upon him.