[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The ground shook faintly with the steps of the proud kariborim. It shook less faintly with the anger of the land itself. Inzillomi stumbled once, catching herself before she fell. She strode proudly on barely encumbered by the shackles, flanked by her companions. Curses met her ears and she steeled herself. She had known this would come, but it is one thing to know of this hatred and yet another to experience it. This was what she had devoted so much of her life to prevent from happeneing to others, and yet here she was, the object of curiosity... the focus of so much anger.

She refused to do the townsfolk the courtesy of meeting their eyes. She focused her glance instead on the empty ground beneath her feet. Each insult felt like a stab wound from which she would never recover. She prayed silently for the divine forgiveness of all present. She fought with her own humanity not to hate those who would see her die with pleasure. She prayed that her beloved husband had been treated with more respect, though she would not fool herself into believing it was true. Her face showed no signs of emotion. She walked on.

A shower of street filth hit Inzillomí, startling her from her near trance. She brought her hand up to the spot and examined the mud on her fingers. She sighed and glanced about only to see an old woman gesture rudely. She smiled kindly and nodded her greetings, her mood improving very slightly at the old woman's double take. She molded her proud face back into an expression of uncaring stoicism.

Azarmanô rode beside her, guarding her and blocking her escape, but likewise protecting her from the violent nature of the crowd. An angry arm reached from the throng to strike Inzillomi, but he ruthlessly kicked it aside.

"His prisoners are not to be harmed by the likes of you." Azarmanô growled viciously to a man nursing a spreading bruise. The doors of the temple appeared and Inzillomi instinctively shuddered. The taunts of the crowd grew as she hid her fear and straightened her back, squaring her shoulders. The smell of old blood faintly lingered. The kariborim went onward, but with a barely perceptible trace of nervousness. Inzillomi doubted even their riders would notice it. She remained as silent as ever, leaving the situation in the hands of Azarmanô. They had reached the temple and now only time would tell if their ruse would suffice.