Glorfindel

Imladris, winter morning, present day

     The skies flashed orange as flames leapt across the battlements. Heaving clouds full of water seemed to hang low in a pregnant pause. The screams of the dying and fighting echoed through the elven hewn stones, imprinting its horrors on the once gleaming city of Turgon’s people. Morgoth had found them and employed all his arsenal in an effort to remove this forever blight on his rule of Middle Earth.

This tale begins in a kitchen. Specifically the kitchens of Imladris. Young Gileryn was a newly arrived guest among the Noldor elves of the valley, and was still somewhat of a mind to do things himself instead of asking. This included feeding himself. While yes, there was already bread made, he did not know if that was made for someone or simply stock. So the young elf felt the best choice was to make his own bread.