Lorien

Two Elves sat perched upon a high branch. Garbed in grey cloaks, they would appear like two rock-pigeons of extraordinary size. If one had any hope of seeing them, that is, for they were March-wardens of the Forest, soldiers of the White Lady and the Wise Lord, and none could mark their passing - or perching - lest they wished for it. From here they could survey all who walked or crawled or slithered upon the forest floor that was their duty to watch.

Of Uiloniell and Tinnurion

Lothlorien. It was created by the Nandor elves – now known as the Silvan elves – initially. One could say that they were alike to my people. I do not believe it so, but that is merely my interpretation and not one of my preferred subjects to argue on. Though, the history of it doesn’t matter to me, for I have little care for the place for I do not care at all for the place.

The dark-haired Avari reclined on a small, red couch, inside Tham Send. He had a cool glass of wine in his left hand, his smallest finger sticking outwards whilst the rest of his fingers curl around the glass. In his right hand, resting on top of his fingers, is a book. The writing of it curls in the lettering of Quenya. He would take a sip from the glass of wine, placing it down on a small table in reach, using his free hand to turn the page of the book, then picking up the glass of wine again to take a sip, his eyes moving down the page as he reads the words.

“Some of my father’s wine is so old it might be vinegar”