Ingirun had been everywhere. She had seen the shores of Pelargir, ridden the waves of the Bay of Belfalas been as far south as the City of the Corsairs and as far east as Forlindon. She’d seen much of the world, but if there was one place that stuck out above all else, it would have to have been Mirkwood.
Mahal below, she hated Mirkwood.
Everything simply felt heavy, as though the forest itself was weighed down by the sins of all who entered its hallowed halls of bowed branches and gnarled roots. Overall, it was a rather unsettling place. Not to mention--
“Elves.” It just had to be elves; the dwarrowdamn thought she’d kept far enough away from the Wood King’s halls, but based on the greeting she was given, she wasn’t far enough. “I have no quarrel with you or your King”, she called out, still not getting a good look at those approaching, “I just wish to pass through your woods.”
