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by Ramield on Apr 07, 2018 at 08:41 PM}
A final wrapping of sinew went around the shaft of the soon to be arrow, securing the feathers to it. After that, all it would need was to dry before the arrowhead could be fitted into place. The elf set it to the side with a sigh, looking around the trading hall of Hookworth. Her gaze dropped again at a pile of papers, the leftover matters from the former leaders of the Order, the Knights of Eriador. Leaving the quill untouched, she picked up another shaft. This was not like her, but then again none of this was. She found herself in a position she had never sought, not even considered. This was never where she had seen her path in life leading.

Her family was so far away, and her niece and nephew were coming up on their first century. She was far out of her element, handed leadership of a remnant of scattered individuals. How had things dwindled so? Beongarn was in the wind, possibly having gone back to Dale on some unfinished business. Brywyn no longer held her title, passing that mantle to Ramield who now sat there next to a barrel full of new arrows and a pile of unfinished papers. Oronir, Anglaraen, Zargodon, Leothross and others she knew, she had not seen since her return. Ulfban…that woman’s location she knew. Her ashes she had buried next to those of Elenath, Hethan she had been called too, and sang over their graves.
But this was not an order of the dead or absent, but of the living. Ramield laid aside the shaft and picked up the top parchment. So many regulations with no one to enforce. So much structure with no one to fill it. What was there for her to do? How could she revitalize that which had been laid down? No one could bring back the dead.

Taking the whole stack, Ramield stepped from the trading hall. Through the town she trod, purposeful in her gait over the river and up the hill. The birds called from their trees, making nests for themselves; flowers and a thin film of green dust ached to become new life. Cresting the top, she paused and glanced to her right. The stones that had been recovered from the former refuge of the Knights stood in a circle, and carved upon them the virtues of their oath, a firm foundation upon which to build.

The huntress bounded up the steps, two and three at a time, reaching the office, her office, on the top floor. She set the papers aside to stoke up the embers of the morning’s small blaze and added nurtured it from there. Soon, she sat at the desk next to the self-sustaining blaze. Her eyes quickly scanned the piles of pages, separating them out until two piles grew, one on her right, the other on her left. Substance, that was what she sought. That firm foundation lost that had been weighed down. By the time she was finished with the stack, the majority of the papers sat on her right. These she took, pouring through them a second time, putting a few more pages to her left.

It had been a few hours, and a few more logs on the fire, but she was satisfied. She took the short stack on her left, looking toward the fireplace. Throughout that time, it had become too hot, and she opened a window to relieve the dry heat. With the few papers in one hand, she stood, rounding the desk toward the fire. There, she tossed the papers onto a nearby bookshelf. With a quick turn, she heaved the remaining stack in both arms and piled it on top of the fire. The old, dry, cracking parchment caught in an instant, the edges falling nigh instantly to ash while the center of the mound lacked the airflow to catch. It would all in time.

For it was not time to revitalize that which had been laid down, but to give birth to something new


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