Crownlight

Daurrie, the youngest of the sons of Gurni, had once more forgotten to pick up the order of fresh cheese that was awaiting them at the markets of Bree. Lunch was served and the young Silvan handed over the rest of the tavern business to Dal, hoping to be able to rush to Bree and pick up the forgotten crate before the inn would close for the day.

A continuation of this story, meaning it is entirely unreliable and biased.

This story is an account of certain events that transpired in recent weeks, written from the perspective of Theothar. Since all is written from his (completely insane) point of view, there is a high chance none of the following is at all accurate.

(A continuaution of In Your Room, part 1)

Some few days after the company’s return from Angmar.

A flutter of fabric, over the stairs. Cloaked. Hooded.

---

The Forest floor,

Rot rises in puffs of smoke,

A carcass lies, or one that's almost;

Breathes a final breath.

Each day, biting, this breath leaves him;

Gentle fingers curl and twist his bones -

A sum of roots, chewed and eaten...

Grief on show for unkind eyes.

---

Watch him, watch.

Twisting, curling, spiting out

The dying breath

From lungs of mold.

Watch him, say:

"Remember, one so little.

Remember, oh so young.

Remember

A melodic chuckle escaped the figure as it fell softly into the tall grass from it's refuge upon the treetops. The bear that was pursuing him had gone limp, punctured with several arrows. Galtharian looked up, meeting the eyes of the archer, unable to hide the almost guilty expression in his face.

You really messed up now, Crownlight.

The young Silvan cursed his own antics silently, biting his lip, daring not to make a sound. It was quite a curious scene to behold: the small form of the wood elf covered in mud and dead grass fazed between the tents of the Yrch camp, not a step to be heard as he moved, his muddied robes matching the dirt beneath him.