Her imagination roams a tired circle, a hobbled northern nag. She is satisfied by the crumbled walls of the dry field she plods through. She seems to take delight in the fading of Arnor, in the slow withering of her people. Give her an open gate, and like a dim-witted child she will shut it fast again, prefering the small compass of the known to the vast and glorious world beyond.
Ah, lady Arodiel, they have taught you your lessons well. We argued late into the night - yet none of her rote-learned answers satisfy my questions. Why not step forward? Why should Men not reclaim their true glory? Her answers are as easily crushed as an autumn leaf in a tightening fist, and as worthless as they crumble. Oh she struggles, her anger is enticing to watch, some spark of life and passion that may yet bear fruit.
She accuses me of pride - I who only state the truth of what Men were and could be again. Yet she wraps her own pride in some mealy mouthed humility, of a life given to the people. Yet, the people would be better served by the return of their lords. By the lords of Men, risen again to might and glory. I hold out my hand to her, all this, she may claim. Her, and her kindred.
