After Jalka had scurried out, Morila stayed in the cave, barely venturing out. Running her fingers along the stone throne that her father had sat in, she curled up against the back, the earthy scent flowing around them.

"Killed by a boy."

Why did he have to die? Everything was supposed to be perfect. He was supposed to fight and kill Duncan in his war. He was supposed to win. He was supposed to come back to her, and make her a stupid princess. She scowled. Everything that was supposed to go right went very, very wrong.

Standing, she made her way over to Morgarath's papers that he kept on Araluen. The castles boarders and defense, the soldiers, weapons, but most of all, the Rangers. An elite force of men, all trained in archery, camouflaged movement, knife defense and other things. She flipped to a page of names, outlined with the words Rangers. Two names where underlined, deep gouges in the paper. Halt, and Crowley.

She frowned. These two were responsible for her fathers failed attempt to the crown. If anything, they were also responsible for his murder.

A sharp burst of rage twisted through her chest. She shoved the papers back in the chest, slamming the lid shut. Shoving it back under the small hole in the rock, she turned and stormed over to Morgaraths' chair. Curling up in it, hot tears rolled down her face. She hated the loneliness. She wanted someone other than Kevric; she wanted to do something.

Turning over in the stone throne, she scowled once more while shoving away the bright tears. "Stay strong," she whispered. 

Morila stood up from her rocky seat in her father's cave. Kevric raised his shaggy head in alarm. Seeing she was fine, he curled back up again. Stepping over to a the wooden chest again, she raised the lid. pushing past the papers, she pulled out a Rangers outfit, compleat with knives, bow and quiver. Long ago, he told her the story of how he had acclaimed them. They was a Ranger, old and retired. Morgarath had confiscated them, claiming to hold them for safekeeping.

He had stopped there, but the longbow, quiver and the outfit told the rest of the story. Morgarath had intended to study them, to see if there was anything unordinary about these, as so many called it black magic. But the bow and arrows were made of wood, the cloak and rest of the outfit of cloth and leather.

Picking up the massive longbow and a quiver of arrows, she walked outside. Kevric slowly followed. Morgarath had taught his daughter a small amount of archery, and Morila remembered his teachings. She used to be very good with the small longbow that he'd made her, and she tried to copy what she'd been good at so long ago.

Strapping on the arm cuff, she picked up the bow, notched an arrow, drew back and fired at a tree growing a few hundred meters away. It missed, shooting far away down the mountain. Morila's keen blue gaze followed it as it sailed away. She scowled, and tried again, with no better results.

"Well," She shrugged at Kevric. "It's a start."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the years passed, Morila trained with the knives, longbow, and camouflage. When she snuck past her Wargal friend, Kevric was so surprised when Morila suddenly appeared right next to him that he swiped his claws at her, but missed by inches.

"Relax," She grinned at him and hugged his coarse fur. "It's only me."

Her skill with the bow accelerated quickly, and soon she was firing as fast as the Rangers. Her knife skill also improved, and trees all around had small slits made by her knives. Occasionally, she would venture from the mountains and shoot deer from the forest. Kevric would accompany her as far as the border from the mountains, and help her drag back the carcass of the deer or other animals she shot.  All-in-all, it was a very satisfying life. Morila would train with her weapons and camouflage during the day, and once in a while, when their meat supply would grow short, as evening ventured nearer she would take small trips to the forest, and then she would snuggle against Kevin's fur as a fire blazed in the center of their cave back in the cold mountains.

And if she had her father with her, Morila would be one of the happiest people in Araluen. But every night, her heart filled with anger and sadness when she thought about her father and his ending. Every night, she wept silent, painful tears of loneliness. Every night, Kevric stroked the white blonde head snuggled up against his chest, trying to comfort his dear friend. 

And every night, Morila renewed that vow to revenge Mogarath's death against everyone who caused her and her father pain.