Years had passed since Netharis last walked the familiar paths of her companions. Time had carried her far from them, across valleys and rivers, beyond the roads most travelers knew. Long ago she had been sent eastward to aid the Kintai elves. It had not been a grand quest nor a matter of war—only a contract that required skilled hands and watchful eyes. At the time, Deorla had simply asked her to go and help the Kintai with the task. Netharis had agreed without hesitation. In those days she was known first and foremost as a hunter. She moved through forests like a whisper of wind between leaves. Her arrows flew with quiet certainty, and few beasts ever saw her before the shot was loosed. The Kintai lands, with their deep woods and winding rivers, suited such skills well. There she guarded their borders, tracked dangerous creatures, and hunted the game that fed their settlements. Yet the Kintai had ways unlike many elves Netharis had known before. They spoke of forests not only as places of prey and danger, but also as gardens. They knew the value of every root, herb, berry, and grain that the land offered. Their kitchens were filled with slow simmering broths, fragrant breads, and curious drinks brewed from plants Netharis had never seen. At first she watched only out of curiosity. But curiosity, for an elf, can become a lifelong devotion. An old cook among the Kintai once told her while tending a pot over a quiet fire: “Every land speaks through its food. If you learn its flavors, you learn its heart.” Those words stayed with her. And so the hunter began to learn. She learned how to roast fish wrapped in green leaves beside river coals. She learned to bake flat breads on warm stones, brushed with forest honey. She learned the patience of brewing delicate drinks from flowers, berries, and mountain herbs. But Netharis did not merely cook. She described. Her words flowed like quiet poetry whenever she spoke of a dish. She would speak of broth as though it held the memory of rain, of roasted mushrooms as if they carried the deep breath of ancient forests. Even the simplest bread became a story when she explained it. Years passed quietly in this way. When the contract was finally fulfilled and Netharis returned to her old companions, she found much had changed. The Company was not the same as when she had left. Time had scattered people, reshaped paths, and softened some tempers while hardening others. Yet they soon discovered that Netharis had changed as well. She was calmer now, less restless than before. The fierce hunter still lived within her—her bow had lost none of its deadly precision, and the wild creatures of the road still feared her skill. But she carried something new. A purpose. Netharis had decided to dedicate her life to learning every recipe she could find across Middle-earth. Every bread baked in distant villages, every strange herb used by travelers, every drink brewed in hidden valleys or mountain halls—she wished to understand them all. Not merely to taste them. To preserve them. To describe them so beautifully that anyone hearing her words could almost smell the cooking fires and feel the warmth of the kitchens where those dishes were born. Thus Netharis took upon herself a new journey. She would wander the wide lands of Middle-earth—not as a hunter seeking prey, but as a seeker of flavors, stories, and traditions. And though her arrows still flew true when danger arose, her greatest craft had become something far gentler. For wherever Netharis traveled, she gathered the tastes of the world and turned them into poetry.