[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s head hurt at this point, though years of practice allowed him to cleverly mask the fact. Though none new of it, he suffered from chronic headaches. At the moment, the grinding of wheels in his mind had begun, and the gritty mechanics of the matter were instilling pain in him that, thankfully, his willpower could overbear. He had awoken from a too-pleasant dream to find himself in an anarchic nightmare of sorts. He was bombarded by information that forced him to act, even though he had fully expected a few days of rest. His feeble brain was forced to process numerous thoughts, and create a plan of action to be put into action hastily. He reviewed what he’d learned in the spare instant of gentle silence that preceded the departure of the youth called Faerim: Orcs had, by night, stolen into the camp by means of craft he knew not, and taken captive the Lady Bethiril and Erenor, and Lord Ereglin, as well a woman of the Dúnedain and a child. Foul deeds were afoot, wrought by the yrch, as the Elven guardsmen called them in their tongue.

The Captain was far from ready to organize a plan. He sat on his cot dejectedly as the three Elves turned away, their keen eyes, those of mighty hawks, followed the Dúnadan from the tent. Hírvegil knew that showing any mental or physical weakness before those eyes could be dangerous. He could not hide mental fatigue, but he could conceal his weariness and occasional error. He clasped his knotted hands and laid his elbows on his knees, looking down and contemplating the ground as the Elves turned back towards him, immediately noticing his state of contemplation. The Elf called Angóre spoke.

“Now that we know what has happened we must give chase.” He said; Elven calmness evident in him despite the urgency of the matter. “Surely you know this.” Hírvegil nodded, seeing no other recourse besides agreement. The Elf was right, after all, time was of the essence. “Yes.” He murmured under his breath and rose, “We will follow their tracks. Among the Dúnedain are skillful trackers. The fiends cannot have gotten far.” His voice was tempered with a tone of reassurance, hoping that the Elves would be satiated, but they all looked upon him skeptically, and the guard by the name of Rôsgollo spoke then.

“Orcs do not tire, Captain,” he said, moving towards the Captain, who glanced back with the uneasiness he always felt when in the presence of Elves, “not easily at least.” After the addition, he continued, turning to pace towards his two kinsmen in the tent. “They may be miles from here.” He spun again towards Hírvegil, “Time cannot be wasted talking.” Hírvegil was put off by the hasty behavior of the Elf, and his seeming lack of confidence in Hírvegil’s skills as a captain.

“My people are tired, Elf.” He shot back, somewhat coldly but with no spite or anger. Still, the Elf was quick to respond. “We are not.” He swiftly objected, “If you do not go after our kin than we will do so alone.” He seemed very sure of himself in this, as if a trio of Elves could annihilate a whole great band of uruks. Perhaps, though, their prowess in combat could diminish orcish ranks, but they would not rescue their charges. The orcs would slay their captives as soon as defeat was evident, to win at least a moral, posthumous victory. If all Elves perished, or even the Emissaries of Rivendell and Mithlond, political relations between Elves and the Dúnedain of Arnor would dwindle in strength and their bond would weaken, when the Dúnedain reached civilization. Besides having the camp of refugees destroyed, this was the worst possibly scenario, and it had come at the worst possible time.

Hírvegil shook his head solemnly and turned, taking his hauberk of mail from the wooden rack it hung upon and flung it over himself quickly, becoming disheveled in the process, but he maintained his grim nobility, despite the obvious loss of sleep he suffered and stress he was under. “No,” he said, shaking his head again, “we will hasten after them with you, but I must take counsel with my lieutenant and the King’s lord, Mitharan.” As he looked to the Elves, still blinking remnants of sand from his sleep-deprived eyes and running a hand through his unkempt hair, he saw further skepticism, but ignored it. “I will have them both sent for immediately.” As he said this, he pulled on his bracers and pauldrons in a messy fashion and moved between the Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo, edging quickly towards the tent flap, which he practically punched open so that it whipped upward in the windy air, startling the guard outside.

“Issue my order to all guardsmen of the camp. Tell them to arouse the soldiers of Fornost, but leave those civilians who are still slumbering where they lie. Also summon to my tent Lord Mitharan and Lieutenant Belegorn when they have been told what occurred this night. See to it that they consider a course of action and come to me when they have found one.” The words spouted from him quickly and all in one, ceremonious breath. The guard was flustered and confused, but soon digested the command, gave a threadbare salute, and turned on his heel to do the bidding of his captain. Hirvegil, not satisfied with his own position in the situation, turned towards the Elves, who, by now, looked even more unconfident in him.

“You would have a politician and your second make plans for you, Captain of men?” inquired Angóre, but Hírvegil made a negative gesture and said instead, “I have a plan, Elf, and one that shall see us through. You would do well to trust in it. I will seek the opinion of those two, and we will then depart to track the orcs. As for you, go and ready yourselves for our leaving. I thank you for your aid in this matter, but it shall no longer be needed until I take counsel again. Make ready and arm yourselves; perhaps you can even assist my soldiers arousing the camp. Again, I thank you.” Again having let slip this lengthy harangue, Hírvegil took a quick, deep breath, and nodded in acknowledgement to the Elves. Though unsatisfied, Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo turned, but Angóre remained, lingering a moment longer. Hírvegil lifted his tent flap and was about to duck inside when the clear Elven voice stopped him.

“Captain,” said Angóre behind him, “I will do as you say, but I ask you to remember that my name is not ‘Elf,’ it is Angóre. You would do well to remember that.”

Hirvegil did not turn, but only said, “I shall.” and disappeared into his tent.