dol guldur

“I have started to dance again,” she says in a gentle tongue, speaking over her knees where they sit drawn close to her chest. Dead and dry leaves crack into brittle pieces as she shifts her weight upon the ground, waiting for an answer that will not come. It has never come. With a sigh, she reaches down and picks up one of the russet leaves to hold in her hand. She turns it over, examining the spots where the bright red has turned an ugly shade of brown.

Gentle rain along the treetops - it drips down in a cascade. It slips from leaf, to branch, to trunk, to root. It sweeps away dirt and ash. It settles at the floor of the forest; within its wetness pools rot and timber, and leaves that sit gently across the top, and that wait to be swept up again by the wind once more. The rain covers the forest in a misty haze, blurring the outlines of figures and trees. One would not be able to see past the depth of their own fingertips.

Mormerildes stayed tucked firmly between the crevices of the barrels, banking on the darker lighting of the cellars to keep her hidden. Her knees were pulled up to her chest in a sitting fetal position, and she had clearly been hiding away and indulging herself in the wine, although it likely had not been for long, as only two empty bottles were at her feet thus far.

Act III, Part XVI: Of Adventuring and the Battle under the Trees

It was a long time before I saw another elf.