OOC: Originally posted on the discord of the Bree Merchant's Guild rp group.

The fire was small.

It barely held the dark back 
Beyond its flickering light, Moria didn’t so much stretch away, as press inwards as if it was listening.

Litharil sat with her back against a pillar, shield beside her and her sword resting across her knees. 

For five days she had wandered the ruins of Khazad-dûm.
It still felt no more familiar than when she first stepped back inside.

Willowsong

Beannaithe and Mac travelled a short distance north from Golberry's spring in the Old Forest. There they discovered the Great East Road, a long and meanderin' road that stretched for many leagues, from the haven of the Fair Folk on the shore of the Great Sea to their refuge in the secluded vale west of the Misty Mountains.

Litharil moved slowly, her sword was drawn and held low.
Her shield was raised, as if to guard against the the endless dark.

Around her stretched the halls of Khazad-dûm. in the faint illumination, they appeared like the bones of some dead titan — broken pillars, shattered bridges, and debris caked in the dust of ages.

She had entered the this forgotten Hall hours ago, following the rumour of an old relics lost during Balin’s doomed expedition. But Moria did not surrender its secrets easily.

The first warning came as silence.

“How long are you going to sit there smoking,” Zairaphel complained from the couch. She batted her hands in the air in an effort to disperse the coiling milky-blue clouds. Her golden hair hung loose, untidy, and she had not bothered to retie the collar of her dressing gown.  

I find that I am growing more recluse, interested in the world around me, yet not interested in the people in it.
I have grown weary of conversation, of polite platitudes, of words that have lost meaning and relevance, even before they have been uttered.
Is it a sign of fading? I guess it is.
My spirit is still invested in this world, nature, its future, how it will develop.