<sub>Peace, tranquility – these were things readily salvaged by those who thrived on a clear, conscious mind. Unfortunately there also remained few places in Arda that offered them in abundance or without some sort of price. Many who sought such asylum were forced to travel great distances to remote beaches or treacherous mountain ranges. Some decided it built character and tested their mental soundness, their patience and in occasional cases, their devotion. Mithiriélle Dunae was not on any particular crusade, but had found that Taurai Wood offered not only a deeply gratifying serenity, but the freshest and most appealing variations of jewelweed, wild ginger and violets. Quite proficient at herb lore and mindful of their potential medicinal properties, the thoughtful Angel examined each plant carefully; gentle fingers grazing the delicate stems and leaves while silvery eyes appraised their age and potency. The warm afternoon sunlight that filtered through the feeble canopy and between trunks fell idly upon the long white hair that spilled down her back, gleaming upon the pearly folds and producing an effect that suggested the colour was not a sign of old age but something much more intriguing.

A hand-made wicker basket lay alongside her already filled with sweet weeds and russet-tipped grass. The sparsely wooded area seemed to have already proved bountiful in more ways than one and for that she was happy. The distant chirping of a flock of pigeons drew her attention for a few moments, chin lifting so that her gaze could more adequately focus upon the distant clearing in which the critters hopped and twittered. They were a playful bunch and she smiled in mild amusement at them before turning back to her work. It seemed the basket would be presented to the Goddess of Life, Lothlómendil whom Mithiriélle served with utmost loyalty. Offerings weren’t required of the Deities’ subjects, but she felt it necessary and her duty to personify her graciousness.

Deft fingers plucked each plant and flower expertly from the ground as she murmured reverently in the Sindarin tongue that eluded so many. When she was finally finished, she raised herself in one fluid motion and slid the handle of the basket so that it dangled from the crook of her arm and pulled the hood of her cloak over her luminescent curls and the circlet that rested there. It seemed she’d collected what she needed, it was time to move on.</sub>

If one listened very hard, they would have heard nothing. The soft elven footsteps of the elven Priest of Lothlómendil, and Paladin of Life Ancalë Varnoi were silent, soft and swift as his race's footfall usually was. His white cloak was belted shut so what was worn underneath was impossible to distinguish. He wore a fine broadsword at his left hip, one blessed with a sacred rune inscribed by the Goddess of Life herself. The cloak had a golden L in Quenyan calligraphy. Wearing a headband of black studded leather with rubies on either side and deathers adorning those, he looked every bit as regal as he looked tough, his fine elven boots stepping on the soft earth as he strode forward with no particular goal in mind. As a traveler of whatever woods he could find, Ancalë knew how to traverse the forests. He had been in these woods once before and it was not the most pleasant of circumstances, so he did not get to see al that he wished he could have. He wore pants that were thick, but they matched his cloaks color perfectly; having been forced to take deep cover in a briar patch before, the elf knew that more durable garments were useful.

As he moved, Ancalë caught sight of something else also moving. There was a soft voice on the wind in a language that sounded familiar; it was Sindarin. Changing his mind on where he was going, Ancalë moved in the direction of the voice. She was not very far whoever she was, obviously, if she was the cause of the movement. Birds chirped peacefully, small woodland creatures chattered as the scurried through the brush, her voice mumbling softly in the elven language, adding to the myriad of sounds that made the forest it's own orchestra.
"Hello there!" he called out in the same language, to get her attention. She wore a cloak with a hood and carried a basket of what looked like plant life from the surrounding area. The elf was not close enough to see everything in detail.

<sub>From where the man stood, he likely could see nothing of her face. The cavernous hood of her cloak sufficiently cast thick shadows to effectively conceal the delicate bone structure of her face and the gray-blue glint of her eyes. Two separate ribbons of silvery hair – one strand spilling across her shoulders on either side of her face – and the point of her chin was all that was to be seen, despite the sunshine. Various ornaments upon her person clinked as she turned towards the source of the greeting and a small, gentle smile toyed with the corners of her lips. He was no threat she knew, mostly due to the ability she’d honed over time which enabled her to sense the presence of evil or impending chaos from the surrounding area. Now she felt nothing except calm and so found it prudent to slowly remove the leather folds from her head and looked upon the new arrival with a genuine friendliness.

“Suilanno” she replied in a soft, bell-like tone. Touching the wood that made up her basket with caressing fingertips, the Angel tilted her head to one side and made to decide whether she should approach or not. He did not seem intimidated by the strange, pearly glow that tended to emanate from her hair and pale face, and his rich, intricate clothing and jewels suggested that he had good favor bestowed upon him by the Elves. She imagined they looked similar to one another, though she preferred to dress more plainly while traveling with their high, aristocratic features and respectable posture. Feeling that he would be pleasant company, she allowed herself to move forward so that they could better converse, hoping that he took this gesture as something harmless as opposed to threatening. After all, one could never be too careful.

“A blessed day, is it not? Although I doubt you traverse these wood simply as a casual pastime.”

Her smile widened, and a coy expression replaced the neutral one she’d adopted while heralding him moments before.</sub>

Curin, who felt safe in the Taurai, walked barefoot in the woods, having slung his boots, tied together by the laces, over his shoulder. He walked through waist-high grasses, running his hands over their grains and catkins, feeling for all the world like the first man to have ever set foot in a wood. Everything seemed fresh, and alive and clear. He felt, with each intake of breath, as if he drank in the clean air, having struggled long with the old injury of a torn lung.

Seen through a gap in the canopy above, a few meandering clouds roamed through the sky, like celestial sheep with pale golden bellies and dark shoulders. A spear-head shaped flight of geese sounded into the south, their nasal voices bright as copper amongst the green-hued tintinabulation of the woods living things.

Long ago Curin had walked away from a home not so unlike this, though perhaps less gentle nor as ancient as this wood, and left his betrothed waiting. Now, as he beheld the pale-blue blossoms of cornflowers and and flaming orange of nasturtiums, he desired to look upon the face of Meluinîs once more, and to press little flowers such as these into her hands, which he remembered felt delicate, and so terribly alive in his own hands, like holding doves.

Thus it was with Curin, that he could only love things from afar, and often once he had lost them, or put them out of his reach. And though it was mingled with sadness, and longing, the loveliness of this place, and the thoughts it inspired left a sweetness in his mouth, and his heart felt some of its hardness melt away.

Then, Curin perceived the sweet voices of Elves, or angels, speaking in their own tongue. His understanding of elvish was limited, and his accent turned the liquid words into something far below their true nobility. From his own mouth the sindarin was as wrought iron: lovely in its harsh way, and all too man-made. But his heart delighted in the Elders, and he called out as politely as he could manage. "Ai! Ni Meren an ngovaded vîn {hail! I am joyous toward our meeting.}"

Curin was dressed in only his lightest under-shirt, that billowed blowsily from the open buttons at his neck, and his kilt. He bore no weapon, having lost it in the fray that tore his lung, and had lost all his gear. Little by little, as he hunted, he was replacing what he had lost, curing the hides of deer and rabbits in tannins drawn from the bark of trees.

His hair seemed more red in the light of that day. At times it looked dark, almost brown, at times its hidden copper was bright and clear. His beard was fuller than he liked it, but he struggled to keep it short with only a crude elk-horn knife to use. But Curins' eyes, the part of himself of which he was most proud, were bright and clear. Since darker days, the shadows had faded from them, and his brow no longer drew down over them. His delight would have been all too evident as he approached, his hands kept visible infront of him.

There was little he could guess about them, but they were both noble indeed, the one, a knight, or paladin perhaps from the sword worn openly at his side, was awe-inspiring in white and with elfstones upon his brow; the other, if the nimbus that enveloped her was not a figment of his imagination, was dressed less royally, but her presence had similar nobilities.

Curin pressed the fist of his sword-hand to his brow, and to his lips, then outstretched the opening hand towards them.

“A blessed day, is it not? Although I doubt you traverse these wood simply as a casual pastime.” her resonant voice rang out.
He closed his eyes and smiled back at her. Footsteps, light as gossamer once more made his ears twitch. Opening his eyes Ancalë found she had lowered her hood and was moving closer, apparently so they could talk easier. She seemed to glow as she moved, and Ancalë could see that her aura was plainly good. Touching the intricate golden 'L' over his heart, the holy aura of the Divine Protector emanated itself slowly from his core.

The Paladin decided to meet her halfway and closed the rest of the distance in a few quick and graceful strides. She was very fair, as were most of the angels he had seen in the past. It was obvious what she was, she didn't try to hide it like most of the cowardly angels nowadays.
"Aye, it is, and blessings of Lothlómendil upon you." he replied in his own, deep and clear voice. "As a matter of fact, I am just out for a little bit of an adventure. I'm on leave from my hometown, the elven tree city of Yomenïampa, of where I am General of the guards, and I have no business at the Temple of Life for a time, and so I go where I wish in those times." he extended his right hand out towards the angel.
"I am Ancalë Varnoi, Paladin of Life and humble Priest of the Lady of Life. It is my utmost pleasure to meet you."

Before anything else could happen, another voice broke out in elvish, though accented a bit and only slightly halting. It was how the General first spoke when he was taught the common tongue. He turned his head, hand on sword hilt, just in case. It was a human of moderate size with hair on his face and growing long and reddish brown on his head. he had the appearence of a trapper, or fighter of some sort, but his greeting made him seem a bit different.
"Mae govannen!" Ancal called out to him, which meant 'Well met', in Adûnaic.
"Might I make this simpler for you by speaking your own language?"

The warrior in white turned to greet Curin with the grace of his kindred, his belted cloak as bright as a high cloud in the sun, and his face pure, and lit as a hand over a candle from within. The Elf Lord was as youthful as Curin had been, when he left his home long years ago, but with no trace of immaturity. This was clearly a master of fate, and a commander. He moved as soundlessly as if he was made out of the wind,
"Mae govannen!" The white warrior said, "Might I make this simpler for you by speaking your own language?"

In his life Curin had chanced upon all kinds of wonders, not least of all the terrifying acquaintance of a Drow, who are akin to the Elves, but with choking spite and darkness filling the void whence the light of the Quendi was sourced. He had met an Angel before too, and felt the intense exhilaration of their presence, which quickens the pulse, and makes one want to choose perfect words. But the Elf was something different. Still frighteningly majestic, the Elf was as a King compared with Curin, who was dressed in what he was able to make with his own hands. But the wonder, if no less lofty and keen, of meeting an Elf was less painful as an Angel; as if by a slight margin they were closer akin to human-kind. His eyes possessed the all too knowing depth that his kindred were famed for, but still possessed of a depth of compassion. Curin felt like a moth in the presence of bright flames. But he was glad to have met them in his bare feet, with only his lightest shirt. For here he was, in his most honest and vulnerable state, without even any boots to help him run from them. It occurred to him how the branches overhead were like the vaulted ceiling of a green and living chapel. That the sounds of little birds were the voices of the choir. And here, where Elves and Angels are at one with the world, he had come like a child, a pilgrim, and his heart was quiet and open. But he also wondered at how fanciful he had become all of a sudden, and he saw things how they must really be once more. Here he was, dogged, and scarred; with his beard spilling down into the collars of his make-shift shirt. He was terribly conscious of the mud on his feet, and the seeds and catkins that had lodged between his toes. Terribly self-conscious, now, he pawed a hand over his head to see if there was any grass or twigs stuck in it.

It came to him as a kind of omen, for Curin was at times plagued with gnawing doubt, and a shadow of fear and anxiety. But he was newly healed from a grave wound, and he was still wide eyed with pleasure to be alive. He had lost all of his possessions, not least of all any weapons he might have carried. But he had yet to miss them. Since he had lost them, he had yet to be affronted by a single instance of ill-will. At the time that he had realized this, Curin had felt the impulse to make a vow never to make battle again; but then another voice had spoken into his mind. Perhaps the voice of reason. The days were still dark, and there were long miles, and likely many dark paths he must tread before he could return to his home in Neiruthaun. Indeed even the Elf-lord bore his weapon, belted easily upon his hip. Yet, by the same token, now that Curin desired love once more, and his mind was blossoming with fair thoughts: to have stumbled across two holy of beings must have some strange significance.

"You are kind my lord. I am Curin, of Neiruthaun. I, and my family, are at your service. He bowed as deeply to the angel, hand over his heart. "And to you Lady, my most humble good wishes to you. I feel as if I must have strayed into a dream!" He laughed giddily at his own flightiness; and would have begun to feel embarrassed, but he thought he saw amusement in the expressions of the Elders, who were likely unimaginably older than him, and that they were willing to humor him for the mean time. He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, and looked at them with honest, and slightly bewildered eyes. He realized he had just blundered into their presence as soon as he had heard their voices, with no thought of whether he was welcome, or whether he was worthy. He noted the Angels basket, the carefully picked flowers there, and fragrant herbs still bright with dew; he wondered at that, for they were in Taurai, many long miles, even as the raven flies, from civilization.

"You are both servants of Lothlómendil" Curin marveled. The warrior bore the unmistakable rune upon his breast, and of the Angel Curin was certain he had not perceived any mistake. Their serenity, and the clean living light of them, like the first light of spring upon the earliest blossom, was enough to convince him of his guess. "Is there a temple nearby? Long had it been the desire of Curins' heart to be counted amongst her servants, except when, on the dark days, he felt himself unworthy even of his own concern, let alone hers. Too many of his choices had been selfish, and had led to terrible harm for too many people for him to be worthy. But it inspired him with delight to even meet anyone who knew her councils, and carried out her will. He felt like the hopeful apprentice who has chanced upon a meeting with an artisan.