Training

I read again what I wrote the evening after initial training; much of it bears a bittersweet pang. My attempts to capture an intensely complicated emotional situation in far-too-brief prose are clumsy at best. It is at times such as these when I envy the short-lived races. Though I cannot say I share their minds, I do find their resilience admirable and desirable. As one of the Eldar, I am granted time incomprehensible to those who do not share my longevity, and yet after what would be generations to Men, I still find it a challenge to write on my departure.

I growled to myself in anger as I relentlessly slashed the tree before me back and forth, not caring about it, nor paying attention.
I was saddened, burdened, due to the handful of work I was handling that was Minyelaírë. I sighed slowly, running out of the ruins, to slay some boar, thoughtful of my argument with Minyelaírë;
"Why try to confront an enemy that is ten times greater than thee?" She said, smirking at my rather mournful form, "He would slay thee and leave thy body there and laugh three times at it."

A Teenaged Daerundros was walking through the forest, sword in hand. She was running, flying, to some unknown spot. The birds chirped, but somehow it was very quiet... too quiet.