Wood-elves

Gibberish; that was all it was. Braigion did not care what they said, and immediately walked up the stairs in the room where the two guards had brought him. It all started so well...and apparently it was true: he belonged no where; no one seemed to want him here anyway.

He never asked to be here.

That tall one...he was intrigued, and then took on that prideful look, and even called Braigion a 'deformed creature'. He held back...though the dark head held Gileryn in a way the Avar did not like at all. Already being peeved didn't help...

“Ready?” Duirronith laid a hand on Barangolf’s shoulder. Before them a raft bumped gently against the riverbank, already burdened with the wines and apples they intended to trade in far Celondim.

He glanced at the slumbering figures again. The moonlight was not bright enough through the clouds to show the disappointment on his face.

Only a few days time and already the memory of the frigid climes of the Misty Mountains had begun to fade. Rest and food -- hearty <i>meals</i>, not lembas or dried trail food -- did wonders for the restoration of both body and soul.

Two horses stumbled down the path from the Misty Mountains, their riders slumped over saddles in exhaustion.

Whatever gold the Wood-elves collected was found by washing the sands of the beds of the forest-streams. The elves could not afford to spend their energies on painstakingly sifting for a few grains of gold; with the Shadow under wood, they were always watchful, and it was perilous to wander far. Their ornaments were simple, and they strung garlands of sweet-scented flowers or leaves to wear in their hair.