Gliriel

Like a black, velvet blanket, the night sky lay draped over Eriador. Bright stars dotted it, causing patterns in the sky. Within a clearing in the middle of the forests to the North of the Shire, an Eldar maiden lay on her back in the soft grass, peering up at the constellations that guided her on many a journey through Middle Earth. She and her sister would often navigate by them, if travelling by night was the safest of options.

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.