The horse-drawn wagon meandered across the great plains slow to make it’s deliveries to the far reaches of the world. Men and beast sat together in the heat looking down the beaten path to the edge of the horizon, which was dotted by sparse trees and the ever-growing edges of towns in the distance. From Ondolond, the caravan had moved swiftly through the forest, applying direct pressure to the mighty stallions that pulled the loaded wagons, and their riders moved at the head ready for any interference their deliveries might have had. They had fought off bandits and highwaymen all across the plains, and they were ready for anything, for their shipment of weapons were bound for the Guard in Lomedor, though one quick detour was in order to drop off another parcel in a town hidden in the tall grass.

Amras Arnatuile had request the help of the Caravaniers sometime after they’d come across him on the road out of Ondolond. For his services in helping them defend their stock, the chief promised he’d let the Elf ride along for free, for Estolad was not a place far off the path to Lomedor. They’d seen him fight in the forests, bare hands against swords and shields, and how he’d defeated enemy after enemy with astounding kicks and flurries of punches. He’d earned the respect and the drink from these men in only few short days, and he had the chance to prove himself two other times before they were finished.

Now it was the end of a long road. The wagons had stopped just short of the village, a pittance of a walk from point A to point B. The men, who had once belong to the Guard in Ondolond, saluted him kindly as he hopped down from the wagon, and he smiled and waved the off kindly in thanks. Then, like a father leaving his child behind to go off to war, these weapon-smiths turned and drove off to finish their exchange. Amras stood alone for a moment, looking down the path, and he nodded more to himself than anyone, and turned and headed to the town. It looked as though the people of Estolad were preparing for a celebration. Although the town was small, it was clearly ready for a moderate sized crowd. They set up tables and chairs, and hung lights between the small buildings; all of which hinted towards the festivities that might have been planned.

Adjusting his bag on his shoulder, Amras slowly meandered through the streets. He looked left and right, garnering no glances from anyone in the streets – roughly every major player in town, plus a few of the commoners. He noticed, however, that his stomach was beginning to rumble. It was shortly after noon and the caravan had not stopped to take a break, and he could feel the emptiness inside of him. He passed a few of the small buildings and vendors, but nothing really looked appealing to him. However, one shop in particular – something more akin to a home decorated with trinkets and tapestries, caught his eye. Slowly, he made his way to the front door, emerald green eyes looking around carefully and conceiving every possible thing that could happen here. He adjusted his shoulder strap for a moment and then raised a gloved hand. He rapped a soft tone on the wooden door and waited…

Anybody home, he thought to himself, and a smiled caught the edges of his dark lips – at least for just a moment.

A wise man once said that there is a time and a place for everything that happens under the sun: a time to mourn, a time to laugh, a time to play, and a time to toil. Today, in the land of Arda, a small village was embarking on the journey of mirth, preparing for a small festival. While much of its citizen were eager and excited about the event, some of its inhabitants were not as excited, it would seem. Among these was a young (by some standards) elf woman, who ran a small trinket shop out of her own home. While the others had awoken early to make preparations, she got up late in the morning, just as she had for years.

She slid off of her bed with a slight groan, as the wooden floor caused her joints to ache, despite her age. She was a bright young girl, gifted with her hands, but she was weak of frame, and her bones broke easily. She adorned herself in a simple, modest dress, and, after eating a small breakfast of fruits and bread, she took a small harp, and sat on a wooden stool that her father had made her. She played gently, her delicate fingers barely even seeming to strike the strings. After she had warmed up, she sung a ballad to accompany the gentle melody.

“Where are the trees, and where are the roses?
Where are the gentle birds, the melody proposes?
Where are the rushing brooks, and streams of purest sapphire?
Where is the gentle wind, gliding ever higher?

For men have come, and all is done,
And I shall never tarry.
For in the end, the road’s last bend,
Lies the West-land, ever-merry.”

Before she could continue her song, she heard a gentle knock on the door. Tidying her golden hair self-consciously, she hurried to the door, and opened it to see one of her own kind, a Quendi. His skin was pale, making his eyes shine like emeralds in the snow. He had a strange, war-like air about him, one that made Vairë slightly uneasy. Not wishing to be rude, she bowed deeply, and said,

“Welcome, Lord, to my humble abode. Is there anything that I may get for you? Please, do come in, where we can escape the noise of the coming festival.”

Her voice was soft and musical, but it also had an endearing, fragile quality to it.

Just before the door opened, Amras ran his gloved hand through his long white hair. More pale than blonde, it too had been drained of almost all color in his time with the drow, and like his skin held a somewhat off-colored tint. However, unlike the young elven woman he had not straitened his appearance out when she came to the door. His hair was messy and his clothes were wrinkled. His gloves were tattered and torn in places, and his bag was nearly falling from his shoulder. Yet for the most part his appearance didn’t seem to bother the woman. Her voice was kind and she paid him complement by inviting him in without much hesitation. He could only reply with a low bow of his head at first, before gracefully stepping inside.

Immediately as the door closed behind him the sound seem to just drift away, and he was left alone with only the voice of the elf woman, and the sound of his boots on the floor as he walked. “Thank you, mi’lady,” he began, his voice straining to meet every tone. As he sat his bag down upon the floor at his feet, his throat was exposed to a greater degree, and a long scar could be seen just beneath the line of his collar – the remnants of a vicious attack that had nearly taken his voice completely. “However, I’m afraid I won’t be staying long. I merely need to pick up a few things,” he continued, rasping on in that beaten voice, “A hot meal and a place to rest, as well as a new pair of gloves.”

Jesting slightly, and letting the edges of a faint smile curl upon his lips, the aging warrior held up his hands. His black leather gloves were beaten and worn, especially on the knuckles, and the tips of each finger seemed to be ripped at the seams. The left was in better shape than the right, however, making seem as though he used his right far more than his left – perhaps that he was right handed, but the elf merely did so in combat to avoid abusing his left hand even more so than it had already been. With two fingers missing, it pained him to use his left in a fight – even with his elven-made prosthetics, carefully hidden by his leather gloves, but it would not be long until these tore themselves apart, leaving just another of his injuries exposed to the world.

“But thank you for your hospitality mi’lady,” he said, giving her a polite bow, “My name is Amras Arnatuile, at your service.” But, for all of his apparent physical limitations, he spoke kindly to the young elf woman. She was vaguely familiar to him, though he couldn’t say from where, but then so where all those of his kind that were spread across the world. But I wonder… he thought, eyes reflecting his thoughtful pose.

Though to some eyes, this man might appear to be nothing more than a ruffian or a vagabond, unworthy of trust or hospitality, Vairë saw something else entirely. She saw a weary traveler, one of her kin; a man to whom the years and the Fates had not been kind. Feeling compassion for this stranger, she made a note to aid not only his appetite and shelter, but to give this poor stranger something that would bring a glimmer of light back into his heart.

Bowing in return, she politely took his bag, and set it to the side. With yet another quick bow, she asked permission to see his hand. Running a finger down each of his own, she was mentally measuring his hands. Thanking him in the elven tongue, she gestured for him to sit, as she walked into the kitchen. Taking two small pieces of flint, she started a small stove-fire going, and set a pot of water atop it. While the water grew to a boil, Vairë walked (with a slight limp), into her bedroom, and returned with a light brown bolt of cloth. Setting it on her chair, she walked over to the pot of water, and began to put in potatoes, beans, corn, and peas. Turning to her guest, she apologized, saying,

“I am afraid, sir, that I do not have any meat for the stew. I am not able to hunt myself, and I have few who can do it for me. Still, I get by. Perhaps… Oh, how I hate to ask this from you. Perhaps, if you like, you might find a rabbit for the stew? I mean…. Umm…”

For some time, she merely tended the stew amid shy and self-conscious mutterings, embarrassed over her bold request.

As she took his bag he thanked her with a nod, but it had been so long since he had been in contact with another elf that he forgot many of the customs and also the kind nature of his kin. He offered his hand to her silently, and a faint smile curled upon his lips as he sat. This was a warm home, and he was thankful to have stumbled upon it rather than another. Rarely was anyone so kind to him, and it was hard not to enjoy her hospitality. With another nod he took a seat, and listened as she went into the other room and began to light the stove.

He took in most of the basic aspects of the woman; her figure, her gaze, not to mention the subtle oddities of her stance including her limp. He even noticed that she meant to make him a pair of gloves all by herself, and it made him slowly begin to look around the room. There were various trinkets and whatnot much like the outside of her house, so he assumed that she must have been a craftswoman of some sort. He was so engrossed in his thoughts, however, that he was only half listening when she began to explain about the stew. However, he immediately snapped his attention back to her, and his green eyes set upon her own silver orbs.

‘A rabbit or something, eh?’ he thought to himself. Amras had a few rations in his bag, but they were meant to get him to Lomedor, and a good hearty stew was exactly what he wanted. So, he stood, nodding, and with a smiled said, “Of course, mi’lady.” Standing from his seat he went to his pack and procured a small leather pouch big enough for a pair of daggers and other small things. He turned to her and with a nod said, “I will be back soon.” It was clear he did not mind that she asked him to fetch some meat. In fact, he felt somewhat obligated to do so. So, he left, went off onto the grasslands – stalking like a predator in the night.

An hour passed, perhaps two, and he had not returned. Amras was still out, daggers in hand, stalking the grasslands for food. Then, as surely as he had left, he strode back into Estolad – his jacket wrapped up and thrown over his shoulder. Two daggers were tucked into his belt, and there was a bit of blood on his shirt and pants. However, it was only a few drops, and not enough to raise an alarm. When he arrived at Vaire’s home he let himself in, and walked into the parlor where he expected to find her.

“Mi’lady, I’m back,” he said, pulling the makeshift sack from his shoulder. He’d caught four small conies and had skinned two of them for the stew already. Since she didn’t have anyone to hunt for her he decided to get just a bit extra – expecting that at least two more would be enough for her for a few weeks.