Estarfin

The elves rode out from their halls, heading east, for Parnard had told them of a place that would be ideal for their feast, a fair green place, remote, far away from the eyes of prying mortals, Men and Halflings alike. Their progress was slow, as the victuals were transported by pony cart.

I felt the brigand tense suddenly as the knife slid through his dirty cloth tunic, and then swiftly between his ribs. His muscles strained in shock and desperation, fighting against the inevitability of the grievous wound. His mind took a fraction of a second to understand what was happening. His mouth opened wide, but a barely-audible exclamation was all that escaped his chapped lips. His eyes were wide, looking at me with fear, agony and confusion. Who was I, and why had I done this to him?

The two elves went on, weaving in and out among the trees, Parnard running along and Danel following behind, being slower of pace. Across streams and open glades he led her, until they reached a clearing fringed by beeches, trees beloved by elves, for the trunks were tall, smooth, and straight, and glimmered silver under moonlight.  “This is a fair place - and there are no Men here, either," observed Parnard, stopping suddenly.

It is said that the first of us awoke late at night, under skies of unclouded stars, and the stars were their earliest memory. They loved all of Arda, but were ever moved most in heart by the stars, and the hours of twilight and morrow-dim.(1) 

So it is said. So I have found among most of our kind. 

It took us nigh an hour to ride to the place near Tighfield. A high dark ridge was to our right, like a shadow looming against the starlit sky. The air was cool and fresh, with just a small promise of rain and a far off hint of fire. All was still, save from the occasional hoot of an owl. Some distance ahead and off to the right, a few lanterns could be spotted, twinkling like far lesser stars in the windows of some of the Halfling’s homes.

Parnard Teludarion is a wood elf from the Greenwood. Little more than a child in his six hundred and fifty years compared to we two First Age Noldor, yet he is our mutual friend and ally. What he lacks in experience, he makes up for with curiosity, wit and eloquence. Though seemingly trained in the ways of combat I am uncertain if it is according to his people’s way, as he eschews a bow and knife (save for eating) and instead uses a longsword, Steel-Thorn, made for him by Estarfin.