Ranger

Deorla left the kin house before dawn, cloaked in her ranger garb—muddy greens and deep browns, worn soft with years. It blended well with the trees, the moss, and more importantly, with anonymity. She carried no banners, spoke to no one. The fewer eyes on her back, the better. 

Lastor stepped into the great hall of Rivendell, his eyes adjusting to the soft glow of the elvish lamps. The air was cool, carrying with it the scent of autumn leaves, mingling with the faint aroma of pipe weed that lingered in the air. “Lastor, it has been far too long,” Aragorn’s deep, resonant voice echoed through the dimly lit chamber as he rose from his chair.

Lastor strode through the grand halls of Rivendell, his eyes scanning the ancient tapestries that adorned the walls. The whispers of the elves echoed through the corridors as he approached the library of Master Elrond. He had received special permission from the lord of the house to delve into the tomes of the ancients, seeking knowledge of the lost lands of Arnor and Cardolan. His tall frame filled the archway as he stepped into the dimly lit room, the aroma of aged parchment and dust filling his nose.

“Hail, miss!” The short freckled man leaning on a rock near the path hailed Enniliel loudly enough to pull her attention from turning over thoughts in her head.

He had been on the road for a few days. The journey from the last bridge to Tornhad was quiet and eventless, but at last he was glad to see his home again.