The woman had lost her mind. Somehow, she'd nearly drowned in the spellbound stream of forgetfulness that cut through the dark eaves of Mirkwood. Now, without a name or past, she emerges on the other side of the forest, only to be found by an honest...
The foggy ribbon of that stream flows as slow as an old man's memory. It drags and scrapes against the weathered rocks that coat the deep river bed. It is dark water. Not murky, but shadowed with something else. Witchcraft. But where the enchanted sickness that polluted the waters came from, none could say.
It flowed out from under the eaves of the Greenwood, now called Mirkwood. Mysteries and dangers beyond reckoning dwelt amid those cursed forest paths. But where the darkness came from to pollute the great forest of the world, none could say either.
The stream of forgetfulness, the waters of sleep, flowed into the greater Forest River. The darkness swirled and bled into the clean current before tumbling towards the desolation of Smaug. It fed into the Long Lake that dared to look upon the dragon's lair.
The great mountain fortress of Smaug loomed against the steel, winter sky.
The woman floated, clear eyes open, her gaze as hollow as the new moon. She was alive, that much was certain. But the secret of the forgetful stream had stolen her heart, her mind.
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The woman floated among the jetsam of the icy river, arms stretched and eyes wide.
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It was only a matter of time till she was found, dead or alive.
