Lorien

You are a reckless one, free in the wind

No stuffy libraries, no confining buildings for you

You are an adventurous one, since you were but a kid

Nothing but the open plains, nothing but the gaping seas

She stands on the precipice. She stands upon the point of no return. The wind whips through her hair, catching her braided locks in its wild grasp and pulling threads and strands of her hair loose. The skirt of her tunic flaps wildly in front of her as she stares down the sheer drop. A sense of nausea overcomes her, and she stands upright once more so she does not have to see the bottom.

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