Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned

“Nothing grievous, my lady…in truth, t-they barely marked me…”

Even as he spoke, he knew it was a terrible lie. His breath rattled with every word, and he could feel a searing pain in his side where the sword had been driven through flesh…he couldn’t tell what was rainwater and what was blood, his fur was utterly soaked to the bone.

Finally, he gave a heavy groan and collapsed down onto the floor, not being able to take the pain anymore…he felt lightheaded, but he retained enough strength to reach one paw blindly towards where Nénlíriel was stood.

@ilinnare

He was loading the sacks of forage to the boot of his car, meaning to leave for the stables before the low hanging clouds would burst in rain. Surprised to hear a voice, he straightened his back and looked at the strangely familiar looking lady.

{ uuu you learning Finnish, too? May the Gods be with ye xD }

His voice was weak, sounding hollow and out of place in the sheltered branches of the forest. A pale apparition, flitting between the trees of his home without a sound, without even a breath to betray his presence. Fear had rooted him here, in the land he had loved, resisting the call of Mandos with all his heart. He would not surrender to an unknown, empty future. The Halls held nothing but despair for him.

“And your wrath is fearsome indeed,” he rumbled with a bow of his head, giving a smile that betrayed no hint of mocking, only an earnest esteem towards the firm-willed maiden. He was flattered by her words, and by her protectiveness, though he could not but fear for her safety nonetheless.