Avari

The Hall of Fire, some time last month.

Her heart had leapt when he returned. She had shamelessly smiled and dropped whatever one-sided conversation had been targeted at her, the moment he appeared in the great Hall. Now, some hours later, the gathering has come to an end. The Hall is emptied, save for him and her: two figures seated on the ground, at the marble-carved feet of an Elfmaiden who dances her stationary dance.

Imladris, some time last month.

"When have I last stayed in one place this long?"

She descends the steep slope down to the rushing waters with a well-practiced jump. 

"Was it when the Elvenking kept me in his halls, after his wardens dredged me from the accursed river? How many years ago now..."

(Please make sure to read Forest Flute | The Laurelin Archives by Legelion for the other perspective on this scene.) 

Taur-e-Ndaedelos, T.A. 2981.

The mountain wind carries their foul voices. Even further does it carry their stench. The pursuer on their tail ensures she makes no sound, bare feet taking careful steps on the stony path. She hastens. The chase nears its end. 

They came out of the ancient Dwarf-Mountain in the north. A retinue of ambassadors no doubt, dressed in their best rotting hides and assorted filthy trophy-skulls. On wolves they rode across the Vales, but now a pack of eight is left and they move on foot. Evidently the Bear-Men didn't let them escape their realm unscathed. 

Lothlorien. It was created by the Nandor elves – now known as the Silvan elves – initially. One could say that they were alike to my people. I do not believe it so, but that is merely my interpretation and not one of my preferred subjects to argue on. Though, the history of it doesn’t matter to me, for I have little care for the place for I do not care at all for the place.

The dark-haired Avari reclined on a small, red couch, inside Tham Send. He had a cool glass of wine in his left hand, his smallest finger sticking outwards whilst the rest of his fingers curl around the glass. In his right hand, resting on top of his fingers, is a book. The writing of it curls in the lettering of Quenya. He would take a sip from the glass of wine, placing it down on a small table in reach, using his free hand to turn the page of the book, then picking up the glass of wine again to take a sip, his eyes moving down the page as he reads the words.

Leaning back against the trunk of red leafed tree in the garden of the little stone house he'd bought, Mornenion took a sip from his glass of wine. It was a beautiful night, to him. The sky was dark with brewing storm clouds, meaning the moon and the stars were hidden. It was almost like when he was young, in Dorwinion, where the light of the two trees did not reach. That is why he and his people are called the Avari, the Dark Elves, because they never saw the light of the two trees in their full power.