Lastor stepped into the great hall of Rivendell, his eyes adjusting to the soft glow of the elvish lamps. The air was cool, carrying with it the scent of autumn leaves, mingling with the faint aroma of pipe weed that lingered in the air. “Lastor, it has been far too long,” Aragorn’s deep, resonant voice echoed through the dimly lit chamber as he rose from his chair. The amber light of a setting sun streamed through the windows of the Last Homely House, casting a warm glow upon the wooden beams of the ceiling.
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