The world is a game - and how I love it. My fingers pick up and place each pawn. See the elven maid Celebhir wither in the high tower, the Rook's emprisoning rookery. This northern Woman, a Queen in my hand. The second stone discovered - my Dunlander's quest - like a Knight in a tale.
My Poppinjay clicks his piece down upon the board, pulling me from my distraction. He smiles, a slow lazy pleasure. He knows I will not chide a man for using his intelligence. The word slips from his lips, his eyes dance with the rare moment -
'Check'
I look to the board, and smile in return as I pick up the King. I run the tip of my finger over the lines of the piece, the warm black wood, worn smooth with the caress of years. My father's board, and his, and his grandsire also. Ever and ever the game revolves around the King.
And for all the craft of my game, and the pleasure in the subtle movement of the pieces - what of the King? There is a whisper in the grasses, in the call of birds. A rumour.
I place the black king back upon his white square, the ivory mellowed cream with age. The Poppinjay lifts his head from his study of the board. He knows full well that the game is not yet done. That my move is still to be made.
But which move? The knight and the queen flicker in my conciousness, the rook watches silently. My hand hovers, like a dark winged bird over each, as I consider which way to set the game moving anew. Which will bring me closer to the white king ... does he exist?
The banner the elf maid bore when she was taken ... the stars of the north flutter in my mind. I hear the name again, see the syllables framed in her perfect red lips.
'Caluinilhir'.
