observations

Well… he didn’t like that brute.
He still couldn’t believe it: master had given him the task to help out in the coming hunt.
The hunt itself wasn’t the point, but Farothir had a good intuition.
And his intuition told him that things were just going to get worse.

The night outside is somewhat chill for spring. There is a promise of rain, if the starless sky and rising humidity can vouch for that. Fae's windows are open to the breeze that stirs up the trees and shrubberies on her small estate. Her fires burn low; her candles and sconces are the ones to blaze forth the light that she needs to see by. She sits at a table in her small, comfortable study, a quill in hand and a blank leather bound book before her. At last her thoughtful expression dissolves and she begins to write.

A fragment of thought, penned in Linnethril's elegant hand. The page bears a small smudge: a trace of mossy green.

I hear her sound,
The gentle rustle of her hair;
The rubbing of her arms together,
Upraised, in praise of Manwe's kiss.
Her scent I adore, green and heady,
Brought forth from the land;
Her toes, burrowed in soil,
Hallowed by Yavanna's touch.