Dawn has broken, and the trees of the Shining Wood glow and sparkle in all the colours of the rainbow. I step out of my tent and take a deep, cleansing breath. The scent of green grass mingles with the welcome aroma of freshly baked bread and cinnamon-scented tea. My hand touches the tent cover. Odd, I frown, dont Elves live in magnificent wood-carved dwellings? Where are the treehouses of ancient woodlands and villas perched high above crystalline waterfalls? All I see is a circle of tents in a forest clearing. Just beyond it the shapes of horses move through the forest, and I hear the gurgling sound of a brook. Then I touch the tent which sheltered me during the past three days. The material feels as soft as the finest silk, and yet it is also as hard as dragon scales. It shimmers mysteriously, a melee of woodland colours. If I were to count all the greens of the forest, this tent would offer me even more shades. Then I look at the finely carved metal structure which holds up the tent material. Mithriel. Its silvery shimmer dazzles my eyes. Not even the fiercest storm will destroy our tents. Ravenor, I would recognize his arrogant voice anywhere. I thought Elves lived in finer dwellings. There is nothing finer than Mithriel and Dreamsilk. His midnight-blue eyes study me the way Father would inspect a broken-down horse. The morning breeze dares to ruffle his pitch black hair. So, you have finally left your bed. Ravenor! Try and be a little more hospital. I turn around and stare at the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her eyes are clear and blue as the sky on a perfect summers day. Silken hair falls over her dainty shoulders like a waterfall of gold. She is clothed in an ankle-long garment so bright, it dazzles my eyes. Ravenor touches his hand to his forehead. Firiel, meet the Lady Gildenberry, daughter of Riventhor, my sister. And you have already met my brother Her laughter instantly brightens my spirit. Ravenor does take a little getting used to, but he has a valiant heart. I bow low to the Elven Princess. Words refuse to leave my constricted throat. Nay, fair Lady of Dol Amroth. Gildenberrys touch is gentle as she lays her hand on my cheek. Do not bow to me for we are kin. 2
Posted on: Sun, 27 Oct 2013 07:23:34 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015