Vraela

Sunlight finally breaks through the cloud of mist that inhabited the small hide-away's main window, and rays of light flood into the room. A mess, by all accounts. Scraps of text, and books, lay scattered across a desk. A pot spilling its inky contents onto a parchment which may have held information one could deem important, but now was  blotched with black. Words lost to the will of the void. As the light works its way steadily into the room, caution thrown to the wind as the room's contents are revealed to the world, a scarred body lay still upon the bed.

     I'm not sure where to begin, so I suppose I shall begin at the beginning. I was born of the Elves of Lothlorien, Perhaps within them, though that sounds just as strange. My father was a cruel man. Yes, a man. Though I never knew for sure, I assumed that he was allowed to visit and simply forgotten about by many there. Other events were happening within the Golden Wood that required their attention more. He was angry and spiteful. Cruel to my mother, my sister and most of all to me.

     I have always had a love for writing, though keeping a volume on my adventures never struck me as something useful. I cannot, even now as I write these words, decide why I have chosen to write one at all. Perhaps it is the annoying loneliness that keeps the cracks in my heart as open wounds, or more yet the boredom of patience. I sit here in these trees, waiting for this great "change" to come about, and all I can think of is that town. It has taken me a few days to recognize this feeling.