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Old 06-16-2004, 02:07 AM   #1
piosenniel
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Orofaniel's post

The rays of sun hit Herding in the face. He spit and looked down. His eyes needed some time to get used to the light before he looked up again. It wasn't hard for him to imagine a world without any light, not just a little. The thought was ever tempting, he figured. Maybe it would come too pass? he thought as he got up. He smirked. His hand moved to his forehead and he then removed his yet black hair that was ruining his vision. Now it was clearer.

The sight that met him was the usual; Haradrims. He didn't like the look on their faces, but he knew that they were excellent to use for his own purposes. And since he, himself was a powerful Captain everything was perfectly fine. Although Herding was a cruel man, he was respected by his followers. Well, after all, it was expected of them to respect their Captain. He moved slightly from his spot and he noticed that a Hardarim was now walking towards him. "Captain," he said as he approached him. His face was slightly miss formed (probably from earlier battles), and his voice was harsh and unfriendly. His armour was dirty and slightly too big for him, which made him move slower than usual Men - It wasn’t hard to spot. "Who will lead the force that splits of the main army, sir?" He asked now sounding a bit friendlier than before.

Herding looked at him for a moment. "Koran Cenbryt, will lead them, if I remember correctly," he said stiffly even though he had no difficulties remembering who was going to lead them. His voice inflicted nothing but jealousy. Herding was jealous indeed; he had hoped that he wouldn't have to stick around with these foul men for eternity, but it looked like he would, even though he wanted to or not. "Why do you ask such a question?" Herding asked suspiciously. "No reason, sir," the man said and was about to turn away from Herding. But of course, such an answer wasn't acceptable with Herding. "I want a real answer!" he said sternly and looked at him with great disgust. The sweat from his forehead was now pouring down his face. He used his hand to wipe it away. The man looked astonished by what the Captain had said, since he didn’t mean anything is specific by the question. He kept quiet for a moment.

"We, me and the others in the camp, were just discussing it, that’s all, sir," he forced unwillingly. He was also sweating now. It was probably because of the big armour he was wearing, but Herding wasn't certain. Herding didn't want to discuss the matter anymore so he raised his hand and told the Haradrim that he was free to go. "Thank you sir," he said calmly and bowed.

Herding was left alone again as he watched the Haradrims slowly awakening from their deep sleep.

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Old 06-16-2004, 02:08 AM   #2
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Kransha's post

One cold eye, a narrow slit set deep into the bare skull of the eye’s owner, scanned the tranquility and peace around them. The eye, though icy like winter frost, bore a shrouded fire behind it that glowed like a dying ember, still persistent enough to glow with pale and sickly light. The limpid orb moved from side to side, over viewing the surrounding area, the eyelids that held it narrowing further each time the looker saw something that displeased him. His single dark pupil would focus and shrivel into a precise dot as it scoped out the undesirable object obstructing his line of sight. The hill of Amon Lanc was devoid of trees, a piece of barren rock and earth jutting up from the forested plain of Mirkwood not too far from where the orc squatted contemplatively. From that hill spurted Dol Guldur itself, the malevolent fortress, its reaches stretching upward into the cloudy sky and its shadow looming over all things nearby. Unfortunately, some trees, though in their final days of life, still stood at the bottom of the hill.

Like many other of his kind, Thrákmazh hated trees, even the broken, dead ones. He hated all trees, every solitary leaf, arching branch, twisting root, and wooden knothole, everything about them. There were too many blasted trees in Mirkwood and Thrákmazh had long dreamt of taking a sturdy ax to all of them. As he knelt, rough-skinned knees creased beneath him, he could almost here the snapping of splinters from great trunks and the whistling in the wind as each column on natural beauty plummeted from its niche in the earth and crashed into Mirkwood’s rich soil. Slowly, the uruk’s hand lowered, the gnarled branches jutting from his dangling hand, which some might call fingers, and his jagged-nailed digits dug thoroughly into the dirt, closing slowly and drawing a handful of the crumbling substance out, lifting it into the air and letting stray particles slide out of his ruthlessly clenched fist and back onto the ground.

Slowly standing, Thrákmazh’s fist tightened around the dirt, stopping the meager slippage. He stood fully, still hunched over as he took a step forward, letting all the crumbs of earth fall. He was surrounded by others of his species, still lingering and talking in tense whispers in the dirt, just below the vaguely looming mound of the hill of Amon Lanc far off. They were slowly gathering, with the reinforcements of wretched men in the service of the Lidless Eye who had camped on the dusty, forested plain some unknown distance from the fortress of Dol Guldur. It was to be a great force indeed, rivaling many armies rallied in the Misty Mountains and the South, but still not as great as the grandest of Sauron’s hosts. To Thrákmazh, it was merely an event, an event in which he could shed all the blood he wanted, ever standing out from the blind, raging hundreds of orcs who swarmed into this foully shrouded clearing of what had once been Greenwood the Great, on the slope of Amon Lanc. They were to depart shortly, heading from the place that very few of them had ever considered calling home to the detestable woodland home of the Elves, Lorien, which Thrákmazh had already fantasized about razing to the ground, severing every one of the grandest trees from their hold on Arda and setting flame to the land. At this shadowy thought, he grinned, lips peeling back grotesquely. He let the rest of the gripped dirt loose, opening his palm to the ground as he began to speak aloud.

“This earth lacks something” he growled through a mouth of dagger-like teeth, his raspy, deep voice resonating like the hiss of a serpent and the croak of a toad as its volume slowly swelled. The other gurgling uruks, perhaps fifty who heard, turned to him, his cold and grim tone too recognizable to many of them. Thrákmazh, as if he hadn’t noted that their deep-set eyes had turned to him, continued with a kind of excited sobriety, “…It lacks the seasoning of blood…This soil has gone too long without tasting death upon it.”

At this, the other orcs nodded in agreement, some smiling horrible smiles, other simply acknowledging his ‘correctness’ about the matter. Many responded with orcish jubilation, thumped their hands and weapons on the earth to signify their support. Those orcs sitting or reclining sluggishly out of earshot still picked up the brief reverberation, and answered with thrilled grunts and roars of their own. Thrákmazh’s grin widened murderously, but it was brimming with an unusual self-satisfaction as he continued pacing, kicking up the dust. Making these melodramatic tirades against the foes of Sauron was a gimmick, one that furthered his persona. At first, it had been a morale booster, which was something the conniving uruk was good at, but soon enough the habit swelled into a method of casting a new façade over himself, which made him all the greater in the eyes of those around him. He could cultivate his persona, re-inventing it daily, and bring more eager young orcs to him seeking advice on who to slay elf scouts, or to ambush patrols from the north, all because of the pseudo-epic mythos he’d allowed to spring up. The orc captain did not care for glory, but the feeling of hearing orcs behind him and only him, comparing the number of kills they had to his own, heaping praise upon him for things he new to be false, but still filled him with that same satisfaction of knowing that, to a world of villains, he was a hero. As he paced away through the ranks of resting orcs, seemingly countless in their number as the dotted the innards of Mirkwood, he feigned serious contemplation as he shot a roving glance back at the orcs behind.

Some of these, Thrákmazh knew; orcs who’d followed him for a longer length of time than these new recruits, who seemed to be spilling into Mirkwood these days, but Thrákmazh didn’t care. He had orcs to do the will of the Eye, and he had himself to issue those commands that the Eye required. He had all he needed in Mirkwood, all he needed that his masters in Mordor would ever give, and was content as long as he could still kill men and elves and dwarves as the monotonous days passed. One thing he did not need, or want, were the foul things that had infected Mirkwood…men, Easterling men, suddenly spurting up from the ground like those confounded trees. They had mostly populated this camp, were the army was preparing, and more came by the second. Their forces were not as great when compared to the numbers of the uruks, but they were formidable all the same. They had gathered in camps that speckled Mirkwood, mostly centered on a single camp where the weak mortal clans were congregating.

‘Too many filthy men.’ snarled Thrákmazh mentally, breathing harshly like a furious predator after his prey has eluded him. ‘When this is over, and we have the blood of the elves on our blades and our bolts they can fall too. The Great Eye has no need of traitorous mortals in his service. Slaying them would be a service to Lugburz.'

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Old 06-16-2004, 02:08 AM   #3
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Alatariel Telemnar's post:

Urkrásh stood, looking upon the Dol Guldur, waiting for his next orders. Staring at what was left of the trees, he pictured them in the back of his mind burning, despite they were barely living. Orcs chopping at their roots, hacking them down, and setting torch to them all. All that he wished to do was of such, burn the trees and kill those who don’t. A glint entered his red eye at the thought. He looked down upon his own limp right hand, and growled to himself in hatred of them. Urkrásh wished to hack and burn them all down, every last one, from the root to every green leaf. Imagining them burning, Urkrásh stared.

He turned his attention back upon his master, who smelled the dirt, ‘This earth lacks something,’ Thrákmazh growled, as he rose slowly, causing the other uruks to look upon him: his voice was very recognizable among them, ‘…It lacks the seasoning of blood…This soil has gone too long without tasting death upon it.’

The uruks nodded, as did Urkrásh, others grinned. He had gone through too few battles, but still enjoyed the smell of blood, and awaited to smell it again. Urkrásh smiled to himself, showing teeth rotted and mostly black.

Urkrásh watched him as he paced through the lines of orcs, pondering to himself. Always alert, always waiting for orders, Urkrásh was. He nearly followed him, but didn’t, and stayed put firmly in his spot, shifting from one leg to another every so often. Life seemed to be going his way, Thrákmazh treated him well, keeping him under his protection, and in return Urkrásh has become his slave. Now he would get to see more of battle, and hopefully please his master.

Looking back upon what was left of the trees again, he pictured not only burning them, but what their task really was. At that Urkrásh smiled again. For as much as he hated trees, he still loved to kill. Urkrásh paced his eyes over the hills. While he waited, his mind wandered off once more, cutting down, hacking into pieces, burning. Every so often looking back at Thrákmazh to see if there was anything he could do to help.

Last edited by piosenniel; 06-16-2004 at 02:27 AM.
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Old 06-16-2004, 02:08 AM   #4
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Arry's post:

‘I heard it was old One-eye going to lead most of us this time.’

Gromwakh muttered something unintelligible in return as his ratting companion, Snikdul, nattered on about the rumored plans for the upcoming battle. They were down in the depths of the cellars and passageways beneath Dol Guldur. Hunting was good down there, the rats plump from the horde of foods stored for the use of the fortress’ little army. The small burlap sack the two Orcs had dragged down with them was filled with tasty morsels . . . some of them still squirming.

‘You gonna stand there and talk while I do the work,’ Gromwakh growled, casting a nasty look at his companion. ‘Think you can talk your dinner to death, do you!’ he picked up a clump of mouldering dirt and threw it at Snikdul.

Silence and the scrabbling of the two-leggeds after the four echoed in the dim, dusty recesses of the main storeroom. Unable to help himself, as he methodically wrung one of his catches’ necks, Snikdul found himself speaking again. ‘Well whatta ya think of that?’ he asked, continuing on, as if there had been no pause.

‘Think about what?’ rasped Gromwakh. ‘One filthy Uruk’s the same as any other. It’ll be “Scum do this!” and Scum do that!” and ours’ll be the backs that bleed when the whips are laid to them.’ Gromwakh looked up, glaring as Snikdul Shhh’d him. He chucked a squealing rodent against the stone wall for emphasis. ‘Stop your sniveling! Whatta ya going on about? Think the stones down hear have ears? Think again!’ He waved a stiff rat’s body over his head, pointing it up toward the top of the hill. ‘All them high-and-mighties are somewhere up there making their plans. And it’ll be our snaga-hides the nasty Elf-blades’ll be cutting on the front lines.’ Snikdul wiped the back of his arm across his dripping nose, giving a resigned shrug to his companion’s comments.

Gromwakh motioned for Snikdul to follow him down the dirt tunnel. Their shuffling steps were muffled by the loose dirt of the floor as they loped along. Dried, twisted roots from the few trees still clinging to life on the hill poked out here and there from the tunnel’s roof – snagging the hapless hunters on the head as they passed. Just before they reached the steps up to the surface, Snikdul spoke up again. Another observation had bubbled up to the surface of his thick stew of half-formed thoughts.

‘Hey . . . I heard something about that man-Captain . . . Herding they called him. Clever, he is . . . he hates them southern pushdugs much as we do. Snikdul snorted with laughter. Gromwakh grunted and slung the rat sack over his other shoulder. ‘Quiet now. We’re here at the top. Filthy walls do have ears up here . . .’

The two Orcs slunk low, half hidden in the shadows afforded by the scraggly bushes and the rough-hewn sides of the fortress. They kept their eyes on the ground before them, fervently hoping no one would notice their passage.

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Old 06-16-2004, 02:08 AM   #5
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Fordim Hedgethistle's Post

The light of midday cast Ambartrion’s shadow before him as he strode easily through the long grass of the Vale of Anduin. The party had left the eaves of Lorien in the morning and as always happened when he walked in the outside world, the dull reality of it settled upon him like a fine ash. The trees that stood in clumps about the plain were naked sticks that clung to life in a chill and desolate landscape, little different to him than the Brown Lands to the South. There came to his keen ears from time to time the falling cry of desperate birds and the rush of troubled waters over impertinent stones. He sought the solace of memory, moving in his mind across earth that seemed more real than the solid ground beneath his feet. More and more had he done so of late, to the point where the few companions that he allowed to join him in his journeys outside the Golden Wood became concerned that he was withdrawing from the waking world of Middle-Earth to a point where he could not, perhaps, return. And, indeed, he was always reluctant to leave the lands of memory and rejoin the fallen and stale world of the present reality, and was often curt with those who called him hither.

This time it was his student Caranbaith who called him back. With a light touch on his master’s shoulder, the youth pointed to the distant horizon saying, “If I see aright, the Mirrormere lies before us, and we are heading a bit west of north. Do we not take the long way round to the Woodmen of Mirkwood by this route?” Ambarturion sighed at the youth, impatient with his question. Megilaes, Caranbaith’s brother and also student to Ambarturion, caught the manner of their master’s reaction and quickly held his tongue.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” he replied quickly. “There is great need of haste put upon us, but these lands are dangerous and we must take what care we can. I intend to lead us somewhat west of the Anduin for a day before turning toward the River. There is a place two days’ march from where we shall stop this night where we can ford the waters and then strike north and east to the Woodmen.” Caranbaith nodded quickly and fell silent before the manner of his master. He and his brother had been in his tutelage for only a short time, barely one lifetime of mortal Men, but in that time he had found his master to be impenetrable in many ways. On some days he would answer their questions with patient forbearance of their youth, gently instructing them in the ways of war. On days such as this appeared to be, however, he resented any intrusion to his thoughts and would quickly put down any attempt to interrupt his inner life. Sensing that he would say no more that day, the brothers fell back to walk a few paces behind their master.

Ambarturion turned once more to his thoughts and was soon lost in the groves of Doriath even as his feet continued to pick out their careful way toward the mountains. He did not turn to Coromswyth where she rode. He had opposed her desire to ride on this journey, for horses were difficult to house and feed, and could be both seen and followed more easily across the wide open spaces of the vales that they must cross. But she had been insistent and he had deferred to her in this simply to avoid further discussion. He did not speak with her that day, for he saw no need of unnecessary words with her. Their route had been discussed and decided upon, so what need of conversation would there be before nightfall? And thus did the company proceed through that afternoon. Ambarturion strode along out front, his pace never slackening or changing, his eyes fixed straight ahead, alert to all possible danger, but unseeing of much that passed before the eyes of the others, lost as he was in the world of his youth. Behind him followed Coromswyth and his students, who diligently swept the horizon with their keen eyes as they had been taught, ever vigilant against the threats of this uncertain world.

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Old 06-16-2004, 02:09 AM   #6
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Amanaduial’s post - Coromswyth

In the dismal setting of the Vale of Anduin, the sun beat down wearily upon the company of elves as they made their way through the long grass, the three at the front on foot and one, a woman, at the back, riding a grey stallion. A dry, lazy wind blew across the plain, ruffling the long grasses through which they strode and ruffling the stallion’s coat so a thousand different colours showed, sunlight playing across the crest of a wave. The stallion’s rider smiled slightly at the beauty of such a simple thing, then glanced backwards again at the path they had taken, her sharp grey eyes taking in everything. Like the pair of brothers who walked behind their master, Coronswyth was slightly uneasy at taking this route. It was some way longer than the more direct route possible. She waited intently, her eyed on her hands as they smoothed down the horse’s coat around it’s shoulders, as she listened to Ambarturion’s answer to his pupils.

“There is great need of haste put upon us, but these lands are dangerous and we must take what care we can…”

Coromswyth nodded slightly, satisfied, as she listened to the master’s reasoning. It had been the answer she had expected, of course, as it was what they had discussed, but she was curious as to Ambarturion, and to his pupils. The older elf was mysterious, so stern and proud, and Coromswyth had barely exchanged a few word with him since they set out from Lorien that morning. In fact, come to think of it, she mused with a slight bemused smile, she hadn’t actually exchanged a single word with him since they set out. But his dark grey eyes said all that they needed to: every time he looked at her, they fairly seemed to radiate disapproval. The elf smiled to herself: she wasn’t as yet sure of why exactly Ambartution disapproved, but was fairly ready to bet it would be because of her openness to other races – she had heard of Ambarturion, although she was not yet personally acquainted with him. He shared the view of many of the elder elves among the Galadrim: he wished to leave Middle Earth to whatever fate awaited it and it’s people. After all, Coromswyth added dryly, The Age of Elves is passing. Why should the elves defend the coming of the Age of Men?

There was both bitterness and gladness in the fact that the elves would soon need to leave Middle Earth, and Coromswyth was not sure which she felt more definitely. She had travelled far, and had seen some things that made her almost think that Men deserved the doom Sauron had in store for them: but then, what of the rest? Not all men were evil: they were weak, like children in their headstrong ways and instinctive manner, and children should be looked after, not scorned for their inevitable mistakes. And she had not seen nearly enough of Middle Earth: in a thousand lifetimes of men there would not be enough time for that. Maybe if she could just keep hold of a few more of them…

“My lady, are you keeping well?”

Caranbaith’s soft, courteous question brought Coromswyth back to reality and she looked down at the elf walking beside her, nodding. A swathe of black hair fell across her cheek and she brushed it back lightly. “Aye, thank you,” she answered, smiling at the elf. He nodded, inclining his head to her formally, before returning to walk ahead with his brother. Coromswyth watched them, a wistful tinge tinting her gaze. They were more than one hundred years younger than her brother had been when he had been ambushed with Celebrian on the Redhorn pass, and Ambarturion was to them what her father had been to Merydhan – their teacher, tutor, guide. Indeed, Ambarturion struck her as being like her father: a distant, proud figure, stern, wise and strong. Why, with their grey eyes, fine bones and black hair, she and Ambarturion even shared their beauty. How ironic then, she mused, that their opinions differed so greatly with respect to this beautiful Middle Earth.

Watching Caranbaith and Megilaes, she sighed slightly, unsually melancholy. They were younger than her brother had been when he had passed to the Halls of Mandos, but in the time between their age and his, who knew what would happen? For the elves do not have so much time left any more…the sands of time are running out for us, I fear, and the hour glass is almost empty...

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Old 06-16-2004, 07:07 PM   #7
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The distant glint of Mirrormere flashed across his eyes, awakening him from his memories. He was, at first, almost disoriented by the sudden return to reality, but he recovered himself before his students noticed the lapse. Ambarturion wondered, somewhat anxiously, if Coromswyth had seen it. I must take more heed to myself, he thought sternly. More and more of late do I surprise myself with the awakening…as though I were in truth still in Doriath with the golden leaves above me, and the song of Lady Melian about me. He shook his head once, hard, to drive away the lure of that memory, and stared ahead across the vale.

Their route had brought them to precisely where they were supposed to be, despite his waking slumber. The westering sun was just touching the heights of Celebdil and the reflected light from its snowcaps was glinting upon the distant jewel of Mirrormere. They had taken a slow arc as they moved, changing from the north-westerly route they had begun so that they were now headed almost due north. They had passed the first southern spur of Fanuidhol and would soon come about so that its mighty shoulders would be fully on their left, blocking their view of the lake that marked the beginning of the Dwarven realm of old. Ambarturion hastened his step somewhat, quite unconsciously. He had chosen their route to avoid the dangers that came from Dol Guldur in the east, but their road had brought them perhaps a bit too close to the gates of Moria. The goblins that haunted that realm now had been repulsed, but still they presented a danger to any who ventured through this realm without the protection of daylight.

Seeing that his master was once more with them, Caranbaith quickened his pace until he strode at Ambarturion’s shoulder. He did not speak, but waited until his master wanted to acknowledge his presence. In a much shorter space of time than he had come to expect from him, Ambarturion spoke, answering the question in his pupil’s mind as though he had heard it spoken aloud. “The goblins of Moria will not attack us upon the open plain; not even at night. They dare not show themselves outside their realm in any size of force, for fear of our reprisals. Remember how we paid them for their intrusions when they pursued the Fellowship into the Golden Wood.”

Caranbaith nodded and said nothing, but his brother Megilaes said what was in both of their minds. “They will not send out an army, Master, but there is risk of a smaller band of marauders, is there not? Ever do they harry our borders, spying upon us and doing what small mischief they can.”

Ambarturion was silent for so long that the brothers feared that he would not reply at all. In truth, he was weighing his response carefully, for he greatly feared that their words would prove true. All this day a slow feeling of foreboding had grown upon his heart, and as the shadows of the mountains crawled out across the fields toward them they cast a dark warning upon his heart. “You are right to be wary, Megilaes,” he replied with studied calm. “But if we are beset by marauders I have no doubt that we will be able to drive them off. The goblins of Moria are still reeling from their losses and have been greatly weakened – otherwise they would have joined the forces of Dol Guldur in their attacks upon us.” As he spoke he heard Coromswyth ride up where she could hear their conversation, and he frowned lightly, refusing to look at her. He strode on with the horse at his back, but the lady would not be put off. He began to wonder if she too had felt the shadow of peril that seemed to hover about them.

“Ambarturion,” she said softly, “I do not doubt that you are your students are more than able to care for us should we be attacked by a rag-tag band of raiding goblins. But if there is danger of a more organised assault, should we not take counsel for that while the sun still shines?”

Ambarturion stopped and turned toward the lady. Tall as he was, he had to look up quite a way to where she sat upon her steed. He wondered if she had insisted upon bringing her horse in part for this very reason. “What counsel is there for us to take, my lady?” he said courteously. “We are far from our borders and night is approaching. If we turn back now we would not be safe in Lorien before dark. And if we tarry here too long we will not reach the safety of our first camp.”

It was Coromswyth’s turn to frown this time. “I hope indeed that we will find safety there,” she said, “for I do not like the feel of the wind that comes to us from Moria. It is chill, and deadly.” Ambarturion did not reply, for what was there to say? He too felt the danger in that wind…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They pressed ahead more quickly throughout the rest of the day and reached their campsite as the sun disappeared behind the Mountains, plunging the whole Vale of Anduin into dark. The valley of the Mirrormere now lay five leagues to the southwest, and the eaves of Lorien from whence they had departed this morning some twelve leagues to the south. Ambarturion led them all up a small hill and into a copse. All about the hill the land was empty save for a few scattered bushes, but the trees atop the hill grew in a tight ring about an open space, as though they had been planted as fortifications. Within the ring of trees was a small hollow with a firepit in its midst and a store of dry wood beneath a shelter of woven branches. As darkness rose from the land around them and closed in over their heads they sat about the firepit and ate a simple meal of lembas and clear water. Nobody spoke and they did not light a fire.

In the far west, the sun sank beneath the horizon, and night fell on the Vale of Anduin.

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