Hues of orange, red and yellow disturb the deep, crystal blue calm of her eyes as she anchors her hollow gaze on the Northman from atop the prow of Minas Tirith; a smirk plays across her lips as she watches him ride away from the city, his form bluring and growing smaller until he has faded from her sight. She is satisfied with how well her deception had worked. The scrolls she presented to him had been carefully crafted by her own hand (each convincing in its construction through the aging of the ink and in the information given in the diagrams and text) and had aided in persuading him that her existence was doomed unless he could obtain a certain magical artifact from Imladris. The stage was set and he was her chosen player.
If anyone could pull off such a mission, it would be him. She had watched him in disbelief and awe as his silver tongue convinced an entire camp of trolls to hand over their guarded treasure to him, thinking him some spirit of autumn blessing; she had silently taken note of his wit in Enedwaith when he solved a riddle posed to them by an ancient stag-spirit, freeing their group from the realm of spirits; and she had listened to him talk his way out of sure death many times over. Yes, he was the perfect one for the task- determined, cunning, and fearless.
If he were successful in bringing back the artifact, and if the words she had read were true, she would have what was needed to perform the ritual to bring her father back from the dead. She turns now and begins the long walk back to the Old Archives for more study and preparation; patience would not be easy, but it would be worth it. Soon, she continues to tell herself… soon.
