[Farael]

Clip…clop….clip….clop…

The sound of horses, riding towards the camp. There weren’t enough men to resist; the wounded would be easy pray for the easterlings. They could only sit back and wait, and hope that the riders moved along worried about their own business. But they did not. Thankfully, at the head of the column were Athwen and Dorran, who seemed to be leading a peculiar group of strangers. Osmod could not believe his eyes, but there was no mistaking the shine in their eyes, those raiders were elves. They unmounted and introduced themselves, apologising for the treatment they had given Leod overnight. Then they offered help, and Osmod knew that in spite of the stories he had been told of elven witches casting nets of shadows that swallowed full companies of men who happened to wander close to their territories, they were the group’s only hope.

At once the healer among them set to work on the wounded while the rest of them helped build a cairn for Vaenosa and preparing her for her last rest. Osmod wanted to help but he was awed and at the same time scared of these strange people. They were so much like him and yet so distinctly different, he felt like a beggar dragged on to the court of a mighty king. Their movements were soft and smooth while Osmod felt slow and sloppy, and their voices barely rose from a whisper and yet he could hear them clearly. For a moment, Osmod felt as if he was back on his grandmother’s house, listening to her stories by the fire. But then the moment was over and there was still work to do, elves or not they’d need his help if they were ever to move on from that awful place and to the golden halls.