[Ithaeliel]

The sun glared down upon the village of Dale that fateful day, her position so high in the pure blue sky that she seemed brighter and hotter than ever. Not a breath of wind blew upon the feverish necks of the people, and it was almost unbearable to be outside all day under this weather. The sun's torrid rays beat down upon the backs of sweaty dockworkers, and the white light that shone on the surface of the river was spotted in places by floating barrels of wine and other goods come from the Halls of Thranduil. Even the steadfast elves who came to Dale were beginning to exhaust themselves from the heat. Yet there was work to be done and families to be fed, thus it was not an option for the traders not to work.

Angalos Stormaxe was one of these traders. He stood in the shallow tide of that river that flowed from Mirkwood bearing the produce of the forest. Any barrels that came downstream he helped to load onto a cart to bring into the town. Now,as the sun began to sweep lower into the afternoon sky and the last barrel was hoisted onto the last awaiting cart, Angalos wiped the perspiration from his forehead, sauntering up onto the bank. There waited a trader elf, who looked up as the man appeared next to him. "Excellent! There are still a few hours left of daylight and already the work is done."

"All in good time," Angalos said. "It was a pleasure doing business with your folk, master elf. Now if you'll excuse me, I've other things to attend to. My axe is looking a bit dull today," he finished, glancing at the axe that lay against a wall.

The elf drew his shining white knife and sighed. "I see. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, sir, would you mind bringing my blade with you? It needs a bit of a cleaning and a sharpening. You seem like a trustworthy man."

"Of course, it would not be a problem," Angalos replied cheerfully, glancing skeptically at the blade as the trader elf handed it to him. It seemed beyond perfection to his mortal eyes, but if its owner insisted it was not, then Eru forbid he should object.

As he strode into the smithy, Angalos whistled a little tune he had heard, but he was cut short by a voice that said, "I wouldn't be leaving if I were you, Mr. Strife." He recognised it as a storyteller's voice. What was a storyteller doing in a smithy? Curious, Angalos listened with intent, forgetting all about the task at hand.

[ January 28, 2003: Message edited by: Ithaeliel ]