After wandering Middle Earth for almost three centuries, Agarwaen, an elven outcast, gets roped into accompanying a dwarven company on a quest to reclaim their homeland, during which she must face her painful past. Will it end in more death, or will...
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Artwork of Agarwaen IS mine, so no stealing please!!
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A room filled with warm firelight, the boisterous noise of merry men, and the taste of bland chicken and potatoes filled the senses of a shrouded figure in a little pub in the town of Staddle. This person typically avoided towns and villages, but they were due for a supply run and needed to refill their coin purse through a means that required light fingers.
They watched from beneath a hood as men gambled more than they were worth, drank more than their stomachs could carry, and shouted more than anyone cared to hear. Serving girls balanced mugs of ale and food, tiptoeing between patrons and smiling politely despite being hollered and whistled at without end. Men were strange.
After weighing the options and deciding on a quiet night, a mug of stale mead was finished off, and the clinking of coins resounded softly as a hefty tip was calculated. Sometimes, once every year or two, gambling and partying would be something to partake in, but after being kicked out of every bar, tavern, inn, and pub for cheating, which was honestly just a bit of baiting and swindling, caution had to be employed. Whenever unsure if people would still recognize them, taking off the hood was something that didn't happen.
At least not usually.
The door swung open, and out of paranoid reflex, eyes looked up only to meet the long gray robes of a friend. He was a tall withered old man sporting a pointed hat, long gray beard, and a pleasant expression. When he saw who he was looking for, he strode over, each step accompanied by the thump of his staff on the creaky floorboards below.
Customers stopped to stare for a moment before deciding that their drinks and games were more important.
Now, the tricky thing about this man was that he was a wizard. Gandalf was his name, and meetings with him were never at all either coincidence or meaningless. This conclusion brought an air of uncertainty with it. He most certainly wasn't seeking help for himself, so on whose behalf was this visit?
"I hope finding me wasn't too much trouble." The voice from under the hood was that of a woman's, though it was not fair and smooth as most were. Rather, her voice sounded mangled almost, scratchy and low.
"It's never more trouble than I can handle" Gandalf replied, taking a seat across from her. "Now, take off that hood, Leithiandes. It's been nearly fifty years since we last met." His request was fulfilled, revealing a head of long, rich, sandy blonde hair, half of which was tucked neatly into a braid. Around her eyes was black paint, and she slumped back into her chair, crossing her arms. Her most notable feature however, was her pointed ears adorned with silver jewelry.
