He'd visited this little inn many, many times before the shadows fell over the land; Reithwin had been a favorite stop of his— and Silandawen's— on the road from Baldur's Gate to his wife's once-Grove. Fine drinks, fine food, a good hospital, clean rooms and a bustling culture. He might have happily settled there once, long ago. Now he stared at the murky waters of this cursed stretch of the Chionthar from the balcony of the Last Light Inn, half-remembered ghosts of riverboats making their lazy way past, music from the bards echoing in his mind. Or was that the kind tiefling below? He shook his head, and the music remained. The Harpers' young guest, it was. He turned back to the river, trying to make out some— any— spot of light in the dark.

An ear flicked as he heard footsteps on the creaking balcony, and he turned to see his visitor with some surprise; so few, after all, were interested in seeking the judgement of a paladin who had, by most accounts, lost his best judgement; and his latest outing into the darkness, where he'd been set upon by wraiths and shadows, had only calcified their skepticism. A wide, lop-sided smile spread over his face as he saw Halanor, and met the young elf at the door, wrapping an arm over the shorter elf's shoulder, and pulling him close. His great-grandson reeked of the wilderness, the darkness clinging to his armor, his bow, everything; but he still held onto the boy.

There was something peaceful about the mountain pass they'd made camp in, dispite the incessent sunlight that poured through the peaks, blazing even near dusk. The old drow sat under a make-shift tent, nursing a glass of deepwine— and a festering ghast wound— as he watched his great-granddaughter toddle around camp, chasing the hound their leader— or, as close to one as he could see— had found in the woods. They were, truly, a curious wizard; more akin to the clerics he so often worked alongside in his fight to redeem the drow.

Belthan slowly looked down to the papers he'd taken from the goblins' camp, holding it away, then closer. Damnation, it was his rotten luck that he'd been trapped in the wilds without his reading spectacles. With a gruff scoff, he set aside the papers, and returned to his wine.

His ears pinned back as he heard a shriek of joy, and a few barks. "Haleth," he called, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of the child, "let that poor beast have a little peace, child. Come back—"

A young elf, smaller than most native to Rivendell, leaned on the kitchens’ counter, resting her chin on the cool, smooth stone. She’d been tasked with babysitting her elder cousin, making sure he didn’t run off. So she decided to ask him for help baking something… something her foster-parent and siblings could eat later.

Ears giving a slight, curious flick, she watched as the elder elf mixed some sort of batter. He was strange… didn’t look much like her at all. But then, her cousin Hal had said he was a different type of elf. Maybe that made a difference. With a slight hum, then a sigh, Ori scoot her stool over, closer to Seldo.

“Hey, Sel,” she chirped, tilting her chin a bit so she could look up to him. “Do you remember what home was like? My home. In Mirkwood.” She paused, brows pulling together a moment. “When we were all together. What was it like?”

The young Sindar mixed the strange batter he’d made furiously. Of course his grandfather and Lord Elen had seen fit to force him to watch his little cousin for the day. After all, they might not have seen entertaining the masses as a worthy venture, but with a song an a little magic among the Men, Urnarseldo could earn fistful over fistful of gold. Their entire family could live like kings. Real kings, like the ones he’d always heard of from Valinor. 

And yet, he couldn’t stand to disappoint the little Silvan; her large, brown eyes staring up at him, like a lost pup, and the way she’d begged for him to help her cook... he had to amit, it was nice to be needed once in a while. Even if it was for horridly mundane tasks better suited to someone else. After a moment, the older elf raised a finger, making a show of sticking it into the half-finished quick bread batter, and nodding sagely. “Needs more... sugar. Get it for me!” 

-- fxrest-bcrn

Answered || Myndilon || Spotify Wrapped Song #8: The Dawn Will Come

The gardens of Rivendell, in his experience, were a beautiful place to sit and think. After all, he'd seen it when they were first being planted, watch them grow over the years into something truly magnificent… not unlike the Lord of the House, and Myndilon's own family. The old elf closed his eyes with a soft hum, hardly minding the gentle winter snow that fell down onto him. Oh, he might have been a little cold in the robes he'd been given in the healing ward, but he could stand the weather. He always had, and always would.

An ear flicked as he heard a soft pair of footfalls behind him, a small smile spreding over his aged face as he turned to look down a the visitor. "Ah," he said with a gentle hum, his breath escaping as a cloud in the cold air, "little Halanor! Oh, dear, me, you should be in bed, hina." Myndilon looked up at the sky above, taking in the falling snow, the stars, and the sliver of a moon that peered out from the clouds.