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#thread: dunadaneth01
immortalmuses · 3 years
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Starter for @dunadaneth​ from Elrohir
         It is the height of spring in Middle Earth, and Elrohir is passing north. About this time each year, when the days are warming and creatures emerge from their winter burrows, the Peredhel makes a circuit between the Weather Hills and the North Downs mountain range, passing just south of the Ruins that were once Fornost Erain. Sometimes he makes the trip in the company of his brothers (twin or otherwise), but this year sees the Half-Elf on his own, letting his Mearas mount pick her way across the awakening terrain while he scans the line of trees they are following. Spring season is, inevitably, when the roving Orc bands come out of whatever hole they were hiding in, and make yet another attempt to reclaim the lost city at the foot of the range.
          Elrohir prefer to nip such a thing in the bud, ensuring agents of the Witch-King never even attempt to establish a foothold in these lands again. At least, not here.
       The Peredhel senses the slowing of his Mearas companion and lowers his eyes from the tree line, a palm resting across her withers. Sílalë snorts, her voice in Elrohir's head carrying a warning, but no alarm. Someone is nearby. Twisting easily on the mare's back, the Half-Elf directs his gaze more pointedly into the depths of the forest on his left. Few can hide from the trained eye of a Maiar descendent, but those who can without the use of darker magic are generally call friend.
         Elrohir's mouth slants crookedly, something between a smirk and a smile. He raises a hand, "... Greetings, traveler. It is rare to see another this far North of Amon Gwilwist"
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