Faerlir

A sudden stumble and a lunge forward made a disastrous idea. Only the reflexes of a trained warrior prevented a crash into the polished metal pane serving as a mirror. Sinking eyebrows and a resolute “Hmpf!” uttered before returning to the previous position. How long had she been practicing now? And how come a simple movement such as the most common dance performed in the Halls of Elrond would best someone like Himwen? Granted, she was not the best warden around, but she had her moments of accuracy and grace on guard, protecting the ones left behind.

 Old, worn leather.... lovingly stretched over the cover and spine and adorned with inscriptions. Eldar knowledge passed down through generations and time. A piece of brown cloth help shelter the old tome from harm when unused. Fingers chilled by the winds lightly touch a tear on the volume, following the rift. Wounds from a battle fought centuries earlier? The hand retreats to its hiding place within the cloak of its owner. How many times had she opened and read through the dusty pages?