We met a kinswoman of his in the pass. A fortunate encounter, he was unsure where the nomads were camped. She directed us down to the part- frozen lake, over a trail of ice-encased slithering stones. A broken arm itching to happen.
His kinswoman is Filrean. At first I thought she was elfkin, hidden in her cloak and robe, greeting us in their melodic language. In truth, even when I realised she was just a Man, I found her manner as difficult to follow as the elfkin I have been fortunate enough to meet. Her voice though, had a lilt to it. Whereas his is rich deep earth inder the ageless stars, hers seemed akin, yet lighter, a meadow in the fullness of summer.
For kinsfolk they seemed oddly ill at ease with each other. Or perhaps these northerners are so dour that in each others company all they are able to do is stare, stone to stone.
Not true. No, I do him an injustice, feel it even as write. When he laughed by the fire, there was a sweet and clear joy. He is elemental; stone-strong, earth-deep, star-distant and, for a moment, summer-warm.
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