sometime in the fourth age, southern lands of Middle Earth
"No"
"Yes"
"No"
"Yes"
"Pen-channas. You cannot keep it"* Ristor swept back a strand of dark hair with great annoyance, though the hair was not the source of said annoyance, but the elleth crouched on the ground in front of him, with a drakeling perched on her shoulder. Yes. A drakeling.
