Towards the Golden Wood

It is clear that the orc band by Durin's Stone is only a small outfit and must be deriving supplies and support from a main camp nearby. Forvonir, Harvonir and Minnwen go in search of that force, led by the steadily brightening glow of the elvenblade Rhovancrist.

As nightfall approaches, they come upon a recessed area up a slope. They watch from behind a large boulder, timing the movement of the orc guards. One patrols the entrance, but Minnwen's arrow finds its mark and the trio enter the camp, unseen.

Within, Forvonir observes siege engines, and hatches a plan to thwart the enemies' strategy. While the orcs lie drowsy with sleep around small campfires, the Men and Elf stealthily set dry branches and piles of wood alight, scattering the kindling over the siege weapons and into the tents.

Orcs begin waking up, their clothing and body hair aflame, the noise of their cries terrible to hear. The chaos of the camp gives the company the chance to press further within, igniting tents, wood piles, siege engines, supply crates – anything that will burn. The surviving orcs panic, and in the thick smoke, the Men and Elf continue to take whatever orc heads they can.

Eventually, with wood piles exploding and flames sending columns of smoke into the air, the orc commanders begin to organise themselves, and Forvonir rightly judges that it is time to leave. The trio make a swift escape, staying close to the shadow of the outcrop. From a safe distance away, they pause to look back at the sight – spires of fire and smoke lighting the midnight sky a furious red, orc cries of dismay and rage mingled with shrieks of suffering.

They make quick progress on the road east, hopeful of finding the Eldar of the Golden Wood, to warn them of the orc threat encroaching on their boundaries.

At last, the land ahead slopes steeply downward and Minnwen points through the cleft in the hills as a magnificent sight unfolds before them – the moonlight dances in the treetops of a thick canopy of forest. 'If there are any more orc camps, I feel only pity for them, for they shall not stand. Forvonir, Harvonir, we enter the realm of the Lord and Lady!' The Men sigh in relief. 'Finally, we get to see the wonders that live only in legends among our people!'

Gentle rays of early morning sunlight probe the leafy golden canopy, dappling the ground beneath the travellers' feet. Birdsong fills the forest, which emanates calmness and lush growth, in contrast to the stark Dimrill Dale preceding it. Forvonir looks around with an amazed expression on his face. He smells the refreshing air, feels the breeze envelope him. He takes off his helmet to let the wind touch his face. Minnwen steps lightly over the golden leaves strewn on the ground. She smiles at the Captain and his brother. 'Come, a stream runs ahead, waters the like of which you may never have tasted.'

At a small river crossing ahead, they stop to drink from the ice-cold waters, which revive them both in body and spirit without ever draining their warmth. But from across the stream, on the opposite bank from where the travellers stand, a sudden scudding sound reaches Minnwen's ears, and the sharp snap of twigs. Without any other warning, a handful of lithe figures skip over the stream and quickly surround the company.

The arrivals stand in a loose circle around the Elf and the two Men. Three have nocked arrows aimed at the travellers, and the others appear lightly armed with undrawn blades. Their features are fair to look upon, their figures tall and long-limbed, clothed in the colours of spring and autumn. 'State your names and your purpose, strangers!' The Elf nearest to them calls out.

Forvonir looks around. His hands are ready to take his weapon, but he slowly lowers them, realising that opposition is futile. He warns Harvonir not to do anything reckless.

Minnwen lets her hood fall back from her head. 'Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo! My kindred, we come in peace!'

The Galadhrim are surprised to see one of their kind, but suspicion turns to a grudging trust as Forvonir gives his reasons for journeying to Gondor. Ambendel, the elven spokesman, settles them at the camp across the river, Echad Andestel, with a welcome as well as a warning to the Men. 'No strangers travel freely in our lands now. You will be brought before the Lord and Lady in due time, and before that the Marchwardens, but whenever you leave camp, you must walk blindfolded. When the Marchwarden is ready to receive you, you may have the pleasure of resting in the treetops, who shall say?'

#EchadAndestel #Lothlórien #DurinsStone