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"What news do the scouts bring this day?" Astalder asked. Anhelm looked over at him, half startled by the abruptness of the question and half pleased that he thought to ask. "My apologies, captain, if I seem rather bold and presumptuous, but it has always served me well, to relying only facts than to adhere to rumours and hearsay."
Anhelm nodded. "The reports seem like they've been recycled," he said, a touch of weariness creeping into his voice. He stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked over to the window again. "It's the same thing over and over. Whispers. Rumours. The occasional Haradrim youth harrassing soldiers. Nothing bloody, but it compounds. They say someone, or something, or some nobody-knows-what, is trying to aggravate the Haradrim, to convince them to attack us." He laughed bitterly. "I don't think so. They're just annoyed anyway. We've edged in on their territory. There doesn't have to be a higher power involved."
He leaned against the windowsill, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. Astalder was silent behind him, waiting patiently for his captain to say something else. He straightened up and turned back to Astalder. "Everyone is on edge here, Astalder. I know you've felt it--it's impossible not to. And the worst thing is that there's nothing to do about it, because there's nothing tangible that's causing it. We can't fight something that won't let us see it. What can we do? Throw rocks back at the boys who harrass us? We can't make the first move. We've been forbidden to make any moves of aggression."
Anhelm went back to his desk and sat heavily, propping his elbows on the desk and running his hands through his hair, then looked up at Astalder. "There are hard times ahead," he said. "I hope I can count on you to help me through them. I need all the good men I can get."
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