[Bêthberry]

Darash swore at the never-ending onslaught of struggles and battles. There was no respite, no safe house, where they could recover their strength after each successive event of castasclismic turmoil. They lurched on; she lurched on, inexpressably tired and weary. She had been swept up by the oppressive, marching rhythm of the orc army and could not keep step with either Grash, who had been beside her, or Lyshka, who had followed them through the Stones. Nor had she been able to keep track of any of the prisoners. Her head hung low, she assumed the lumbering tread of the orcs, the vile creatures she had come to know and despise in her captivity. She was as tall as they, although more slender and lithe, but at least the layers of pilfered orcish coverings lent her some bulk. The stink of offending flesh was almost overwhelming; whatever meats these creatures ate, it sullied their being, mingling acrid odour with the foul stench of rancid decay. Darash shook her head violently, shoving an orc away from her and incurring a curse which rained on her with spittle. She was nearly tempted to reply in the degraded speech of the orcs, but she overcame the desire and merely gave the creature a shrug and frowning stare. Her skin was not as dark as his, but enough, given her clothing and demeanour, to benefit her disguise.

She had been a hunter, never the hunted, and now she was learning the tricks and feints of the pursued to save herself. Slowly, as she stumbled forward in that surly mob, she began to apprise the situation. She looked around desperately for the others, feeling the unsettledness and fear of the unknown. Things were happening, the meaning of which she did not understand. She felt as if she were the sedges at the side of lakes, thrown violently here and yon by both wind and wave and not knowing what to expect. The Dark Lord's Stones had shaken her, had taught her that this new world was unlike her old, had meaning and values and dangers she could not expect or anticipate. She could only sway and hope to find a direction. And look to the knowledge and ways of others.

A wild melee caught her attention, as orcs began battling orcs. She edged her way around the chaos, eyes darting to survey the perimeter, if indeed it could be said to have a perimeter. She could make out the pygmy Brór flailing about, trying, trying to pull a reluctant Zurumor away from a creature, the like of which she had never seen or imagined. A crinkling itch of torment picked at her, as if needles penetrated her entire body, as she watched a winged creature with a hollow cloak cruise over them. It sucked the air out of the sky and Darash nearly fainted.

As she regained her sense, the creature was climbing up and away, higher in the sky and she saw Raeis--Raeis!--collapsed. There was another, she was not sure who--the other one, Morgoroth! Something had happened. She saw two who needed her aid, but no one was around her. Holding her hood over her face, she lumbered through the crowd towards the others, wishing somehow she could give a sign, any sign, to Lyshka or Grash to find her, to help the others.