Arvaethor Haldirithion (Commissioned by me)

 

 

 

Characteristics:

 

 

 

 

First  Impressions:

 

 

   Tall and proud, fair of limb and lean of frame, this elf stands. His countenance, pale and ageless, with the high cheekbones and noble bearing of the Ñoldor. His hair, white as freshly fallen snow, cascades freely about his shoulders — not the bright silver so prevailing amongst the Sindar, but true white, devoid of all colour.

 

 

   Bright and keen shine his eyes, reminiscent of the washed-out grey of a winter’s morn, wherein lie the echoes of a profound sorrow, lingering like shadows in their stony depths. 

 

 

   He walks with fluid grace, purposeful and light upon his feet. A stillness surrounds him, a testament to the mastery he holds over both sáma (mind) and hröa (body).

 

 

   His voice is rich and even, yet at times, flat and bereft of emotion. His countenance, stoic and resolute, often betrays the weight of the burden he carries, as a deep longing and ennui mar his alabaster features. 

 

 

 

Demeanor:

 

 

   Those who meet Arvaethor find him to be a very controlled, steadfast and stoic person. His bearing is ever calm, his words unfailingly polite and sincere, yet he also bears a taciturnity that can appear cold and aloof.

 

 

   The burdens and woes of his long life have somewhat imbued him with a sense of pessimism and resignation, that often borders on melancholy. Despite this, he remains resolute in his duties, his focus unwavering and his determination unyielding. Solitude and the silent companionship of animals are his chosen sanctuary, a reflection not of shyness, but of his innate nature.

 

 

   Despite his sometimes sombre outlook, Arvaethor remains altruistic. He is unafraid to confront danger head-on, to shield the innocent and champion those who cannot defend themselves, his courage has often been a beacon of hope to those in need.

 

 

 

 

Wardrobe:

 

 

   When venturing forth, Arvaethor dons a sturdy breastplate, and a long shirt of fine chainmail, hidden beneath a white jerkin intricately embroidered with threads of pale gold.

 

 

   Armoured vambraces and greaves shield his forearms and shins, while steel pauldrons sit proudly upon his broad shoulders. Upon his brow rests a circlet of silvered steel, adorned with a single gleaming adamant, keeping his hair from his face.

 

 

   He wears a pair of supple leather traveling boots, tailored to his form with meticulous care. Draped about his shoulders is a thick cloak, expertly fashioned to withstand the fiercest of elements, its collar embellished with the well worn fur of a white wolf.

 

 

 

Jewelry:

 

 

   Upon his left index finger, he wears a silver band expertly wrought to resemble entwined holly leaves with rubies set in place of berries.

 

 

           Q: Cormaercë (Ring of Holly)

 

 

Weapons:

 

 

         S: Silvegil, Q: Silmacil (Sword of Adamant)

 

 

   A masterwork Greatsword hewn in the ancient forges of Gondolin by the skilled hands of Faidhrodil. This blade stands as the pinnacle of the smith's artistry, the culmination of years of toil and dedication. Its elegantly curved blade spans nearly four feet, adorned with intricate filigree and runes of precision etching. The hilt, just shy of one and a half feet in length, mirrors the blade's silver motif, embellished with pale adamants from the depths of Anghabar.

 

 

   Like all masterwork blades of its era, it possesses a mystical aura, radiating a soft blue glow in the presence of Orc-kind, while retaining an edge that never dulls. Legend holds that this remarkable weapon was bestowed as a wedding gift upon Haldirith, Gate Warden of the Seventh Gate, who bore it valiantly through the harrowing trials of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

 

 

   Arvaethor bears the weapon, bound in leather and cloaked in somber grey upon his back. Its great length dictates that he unveils it only ere battle, when time allows. To him, the weapon is a duality of beauty and sorrow, its history woven with threads of grief and sacrifice. In moments of close quarters or fleeting skirmishes, he often turns to a simple sword forged in the fires of Imladris. Yet, when the need arises, and Silvegil is unleashed, it becomes a lethal symphony, a scourge upon many an orcish horde.