Having awoken with a bad hangover, and having then had to suffer the indignity of a sponge bath at the hands of Master Dínendal’s assistant, Thorkell bogsveigir was in no mood to meekly accept another dressing-down from the March Warden of Eryn Carantaur.

He pushed himself up on his good arm, wincing because the movement jarred his damaged shoulder, and scowled at the elf. “What?” he barked. “I did nothing wrong. The cook sent me down to the river—I found her there, wandering about, all alone—the Orcs attacked us before I could get her back—”

Without a word, Haldir laid the Beorning’s bow and quiver at the foot of his bed. Then, still saying nothing, he turned and left.

Thorkell stared at the elf’s retreating back. “It will be weeks before I can use them again,” he shouted. He sank back onto his pillow. “Apparently.”