Bree-land

Leaning back against the trunk of red leafed tree in the garden of the little stone house he'd bought, Mornenion took a sip from his glass of wine. It was a beautiful night, to him. The sky was dark with brewing storm clouds, meaning the moon and the stars were hidden. It was almost like when he was young, in Dorwinion, where the light of the two trees did not reach. That is why he and his people are called the Avari, the Dark Elves, because they never saw the light of the two trees in their full power.

It is eighteen years before. Two years have passed since the death of Haeneth’s husband, Desten, and the chaos of events that saw Haeneth and Thorvall exiled from the Mark. They have once again claimed a hall in Bree-land as their home, guarded by their warband and the often-unseen visitation of a Ranger...

Hello, old friend! I haven't written to you for some time, have I? How have you been? Sitting in my saddlebags, gathering dust, I see.

I know it's been far too long, and perhaps you'd like to hear what I've been up to. No, not yet. I have more pressing concerns. But you know how I can be; how I tend to ramble, covering ideas from here, there, and everywhere in between. Maybe you'll catch snatches as I go.

The sun had just set when Arra led the small band of hooded and masked figures through the Bree-Fields. Just ahead the dirt path met a small wooden bridge which went over the stream which flanked a nearby farmhouse. The windows were bright. "Someone's home," Arra said from beneath her hideous mask, carved into the shape of an orc's face. Some might call it an improvement.