"Lively."

It's an odd brand to be burned into one's reputation, but undoubtedly accurate: Alavad is lively, with all the lack of social grace, finesse, and elegance that ever-so-politely implies.

If the irony looms, he laughs at nothing. ("Why now, Alavad!")

​If the mood strikes, he teases for nothing. ("Alavad, you're only being cruel!")

If the silence presses, he'll sing for no one. ("Entertaining the echoes again, brother?")

If music plays, he'll dance with no one. ("Now you're just being silly.")

It is an unfortunate disposition, tragic, really, and while merriment and joy are absolutely no stranger to the elves a lack of dignity is, an odd case where age did not supercede a simple willingness to live wildly and delightedly, if it did teach a desire to do it quietly.

And cleverness can earn forgiveness, and certainly, Alavad is clever-- his wit is sharp as his tongue and so it is that the elf often finds himself hacking at egos as much as orcs, and with just as much pleasure. 

This, all of this, has led to an odd consequence as the time of the elves fades from Middle Earth and his brethren turn their faces to the sea and the journey that waits for all those whose hearts are heavy with waning fate and an uncertain future: Alavad has found himself with an enduring and odd fascination with the Race of Men.

It began with the Battle of the Five Armies, and has continued to this very day: he finds a man or woman, and follows them, acting as guide and companion and friend until the time as their 'story' is complete, their great task comes to an end, and ways must part. 

So it is that the story of Alavad, as he'd say, is less a record of his tales but of the heroisms that will shape the blossoming Fourth Age, no matter how great or small.

Come, sit. Let him tell you of the time his good friend Jaerth punched a bear.