Her imagination roams a tired circle, a hobbled northern nag. She is satisfied by the crumbled walls of the dry field she plods through. She seems to take delight in the fading of Arnor, in the slow withering of her people. Give her an open gate, and like a dim-witted child she will shut it fast again, prefering the small compass of the known to the vast and glorious world beyond.
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azrudur
