Yende

A hazy night dimmed over the sleeping woods of Thinglad, the bare branches of the trees swaying in the chilly Breeze. Daerundros frowns as she slouches a fine bit, lazily grazing over the wood with her proud, fierce Mare, which tosses it's head in pride, despite her attention being, at large, ever-vigilant against whatever be her foe, for she knew that something was moving against her.

((OOC: This is a continuation of Near The Blue Mountains, In The End Of Summer and Dreams of the Past (part two) by Arvaryar.))

The packet contains a neatly cleaned and folded, though worn around the edges black hauberk. A swan medallion lies on top of it.

The hooves of the war-horse kicked up large patches of turf from the moist ground of the forest as she rode by, uncaring of the track she was leaving in the lush green grass of the slopes. She steered the horse with a speed caused by urgency, never leaving her course.
The season was ending; already the branches of the nearby forest were dripping with mist and the air had taken on a chill in the mornings, cool air rolling in from the sea.

Amongst the people of Middle Earth, none are as sensitive, arguably, than the elusive elves. Of course, there are exceptions, on both ends of the proverbial scale. War will do that, to even the bravest of souls. On one of the ends of the scales, was a relatively young soul by the name of Gliriel, which in her native tongue meant: Daughter of Song. Indeed, her voice was exquisite to the ear.

The hall was silent and empty in the afternoon hours. Golden sunlight filtered lazily through the coloured windows, bathing everything in a multicoloured twilight.
He found her sitting on a small table in the furthest corner, staring into the unlit fireplace. She was nursing a glass of wine which she seemed to have refilled several times already from a flagon on the table.
"Mylady..."
She looked up. "Ah, come sit with me, Lord."
"I prefer to stand." He smiled thinly.