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“There was a time when I could have shot at a squirrel hiding in the highest branches of the pine trees in Dorthonion. Now? I’m lucky if I can just spot one”
Sat upon the docks, the elleth pulled an old piece of parchment from the folds of her robe. She was surprised somebody still cared about the tradition of the lanterns. On the parchment was written short poem, half of it seemingly ripped away; lost lore of a time when the name Edhellond meant a living, breathing community and not a pile of rubble. With voice no louder than a whisper she recited, as the flower-lanterns made their way down the river:
"Move those arms 'Calie! Quick cuts! One, two, three! Strong strikes now! Never lock your elbow when striking, young Elleth!"
Sparring on the shoreline of Forlond's bay was something Earcalie loved most during her visits to family, while elven mercantile ships rolled lazily along the waves leaving the port
Earcalie snorted, sat alone on the porch of her house, trying to understand from where the cry was coming. The porch was almost all in the shadow, lit only by the flickering light of a lantern hanged onto a beam, already on the way to extinguish by itself. The elleth didn’t care if it was extinguishing.