The question remained unanswered. The time to depart had come. Melcildir pulled on his soft leather gloves and strapped his pack to his back under his cloak. He had packed rather light; only his weapons and a few other necessities burdened his back. His bow was slung over his shoulder, daggers in his belt and sword at the ready.
He looked around as the last of the Golden Woods was passing behind him. He may never again return to his tree-top home or listen to the voice of Nimrodel sing him sofly to sleep.
His mind wandered again to the strange feeling of impending doom that he had felt earlier. It had passed, was it only aprehension or anxiety?
The plan was excellent. Orcs and Eaasterlings never were too bright. But charging the army would mean close combat and serious sword-work. His daggers would serve the purpose. He did not fear his death. He would fight with all he had. Orc blood would stain the ground and their bodies would be feed for the carion fowl before he would let Anuion die at the hands of the Orcs and Easterlings.
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