Elf

Glaerorn had grown up between the caves of the Elven King and the twilight of the wood, where a constant feeling of a not-quite-peace had been lingering on the edges of everything in the last few years.

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.

Letter to Manadhlaer from Merenellon,

Elegant handwriting on a good paper, that smells of herbs.

My dear Lady,

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. 

Nan Wathren was a perfect spot for extort information from the foul beast.

"Let's make this quick'n easy lad" Vholrat said.

The two men looked at each other and one of them pointed a dagger right at the throat of the creature.

"Talk." Said the elf.