The Journal of Turri and Yurri
The Elf That Followed the Dwarf
Entry Six Hundred and Ninety Seven
I crossed the Brandywine River as a lone, silent Dwarf on his humble way home. Within and beyond the village of Stock, pointy ears protruded from the tiny heads of the little folk. Almost identical to the Elf kind, sharp and deformed from that of regular ears. Those ears hear the thoughts floating in our heads. The snapping of twigs and the murmurs of folk hundred's of leagues away, I suspect! I parted with the road, my last remaining companion, and strode North to be isolated in the emptied woodland's of the Shire. My destination had not changed, yet my path did much.
Yet another ruin of a time forgotton I did stumble upon. I took my rest there, flask of mead in the one hand, and my favored pipe clenched between my yellowing teeth. I murmured the song's of my people, joyful lyrics only splintered from the squadron's of birds sailing over head and the pauses I took to pass the smoke through my nose and lips. The view was splendid up on hill, the top's of tree's beneath me of all folk, one of the small kind. The world was at my fat feet.
I startled and fell from my tactical position due to a sound in the forest. A sound I do ever dread to hear. The singing of a fair lady, perfection captured in sound. It was a language not Westron, foreign to my ears. Something so beautiful, yet so suspicious. Unfathomable. Not meant for the presumably lowly likes of me to know. For all I knew this figure could be singing to an unseen enemy in the woodland, noting this villain or a legion of them to my presence. A lone Dwarf astray in the wood's, with rumours of the finest mithril in pocket. I approached, ready for warfare.
It approached me, ascended the steps despite my flat raised hand, preceded to fondle my braided beard, pitying my threats that were only understood with my clenching of jaw and axe with furrowed brows of fury. And she did take pity on me. I saw such in her eyes. It put me to shame. Broke down the barriers of Yurri that none could destroy even with the mightiest Dwarf made hammer! For she was an Elf, a treacherous and mischievous Elf. Yet innocence she bore, shoes she did not with beauty and curiosity in equal stead. Her skin was radiant, her long black locks mighty fair. She glowed in sunlight and sung beautifully beneath it. A fool of the man folk would call this love, yet this Dwarf knows better. The Elf transfixed me like a mother to a son, silent and judgmental. Before me was an entity that knew and lived better than the mighty Dwarf Yurri. It was a positive thing in that instant, one that made even me shy and recoil. But then I remembered myself, and the tales from my people that surrounded the treacherous Elf kind.
I left that damned silent woman atop the ruin, stomping my way down the hill. My hands lowered branches of bushes before me, of which angrily sprang back up once I was past and released my pressure. The forest was enraged with me, the wind on a clear summer's day picked up to bristle all in my rage of allowing the enemy to touch me. Like a child with a young pet hound. Yet in my stride of malice I did turn, to find her standing right behind me, silently, with only a soft frown to gift me. I took a step forward, and she took a step forward. I stopped, she stopped. I tilted my head, and she did in turn. My threat's I am sure she understood, and yet they passed right through her. She was studying me, mimicking my behaviour and reading me as if an open book.
I am an angry Dwarf. A mighty Dwarf. But I do not kill that which is innocent. Nor do I strike the female kind lest I am drunk or the wenches make for me first! I must be cunning, and rid myself of this infernal wretch! Two people's, in a land not our own, enemies at heart now prancing through the woods of a land foreign to each of us. A tale that I determined not to let come to fruition. I won't share my stride with this enemy.
Yet how innocent and gentle must this Elf be to follow a strange Dwarf so willingly, free of care. To what purpose? To what end? A trick! A deception! A scheme is a foot with a plot so dark my Dwarvish blood would boil and curl in my veins! I must rid myself of this curious Elf in a way not common in my answers to irritation. My writing's will continue once my effort's in this matter are spent.
