[Durelin]

The Mirkwood scouts immediately took a strategic position to observe the army as it prepared itself to march. Watching the servants of Sauron leave their camp was unsettling. For the elves it was sickening, and easily roused their race’s characteristic rage of immortals. The orcs and Men alike scarred the Earth with their defiling wastes that were left along the way to wherever their Master sent them. The worst of what they left were the bodies of rocs, slaughtered by their own kind or their ‘allies’. Those were left to decay under the sun and moon with unnatural slowness and foulness. Not even the carrion fowl of the skies, dark creatures all their own, would touch a dead orc carcass, even a freshly dying one. Still, they taunted those on the ground, as they did the dying, and even the dead. It never mattered to a carrion bird, as they knew that any that they welcomed would hear them even after their eyes failed to see. And so their laughter filled the air, and they perched restlessly in scattered trees, or poked around on the ground, carefully avoiding the kicks and swats aimed at them. Others circled in the air above, seemingly wrapped up in the energy of the moment, the bustle below of foul creatures, performing a ritual long since reserved for a dawn such as this.

The chaos that the elves observed among the camp made it almost impossible for them to distinguish a separate group gathering to make their own march. But a Man’s shout was heard clearly, full of anger that he did not wish to suppress, instructing a group to march while the rest of the army milled around, awaiting enough organization to arise among them so that they could move, as well. The independent troop separated itself from the rest, consisting of both orcs and Men. They seemed to move with a strange earnest, looking forward to their destination. And wherever their march would end, Calenvása knew that his scouts must follow. He turned to look at Thorvel, who crouched nearby him, letting his eyes pass between watching the army and watching his Captain, obviously awaiting the order to follow. It was the correct action, Calenvása knew. This was what had worried them since their journey had begun. Was this the attack plan beginning to unfold? It certainly was strange that the majority of the army seemed to be remaining where they were.

The Captain raised his hand to gain everyone’s attention, as the elves were slightly spread out and their focus was on their enemies. They moved closer to Calenvása so that he could whisper his orders. “We follow this special force to their special end.” Thorvel smiled slightly, as he always had, enjoying his Captain’s sense of humor. But he quickly removed the grin, remembering that he was angry with Calenvása. And he knew that the elf had reason to be angry, if not exactly at him. These were frustrating days, and they would only grow worse. Targil seemed to realize this, as well, and he only nodded grimly before leaping to his feet and being the first to begin the real chase. There was something about this situation, something in the air that cried out a need for haste.

Calenvása rose quickly to follow Targil, as did Thorvel. But Lómarandil rose slowly, strangely not bothering to be in the company of Targil, and seemingly unaffected by the feeling of need. He was the only scout that had not come to recognize the importance of what Thorvel had heard that first sleepless night. Calenvása stopped and looked at the young elf, and did not have to tell Thorvel or Targil to keep moving. He remained calm and quiet, yet cold, when he spoke. “Lómarandil, you have been slow to follow orders for some time now. If there is a reason for this, I wish to hear it. And even if there is not, I wish for your company.”

“And my company I will give, if my Captain wishes it.”

Calenvása had thought his voice had been so very cold, but he had been greatly mistaken. Those words stung, and left him numb. And so they would run in a silence in which urgency screamed.