[Elfwine]

To start things off, no, I’ve not participated in an RPG on the Barrow-Downs as of yet, thus, I am in zero Games of late, save the Green Dragon Inn, which I have posted at repeatedly.

NAME: Solondil

AGE: 3,732, near ‘33

RACE: Lothlorien Elf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Centuries as a border scout has sharpened his senses and roughened his palms – he was most and perhaps still is skilled with the bow, to the point that reaching back for a shaft had become an automatic reflex, but the loss of sight in one eye has since dulled his ability. Thus, he has reverted to using a more up-close and personal tool of combat, the sword.

APPEARANCE: Strong-boned and lank in figure, Solondil is of average height for the Elven race, though his fair tresses can usually be picked out above and among the crowd. Pallid skin covers features, still sharply angled in old age. His locks of silver-gold fall shorter than that of most of his kin, half tied back with a worn silken ribbon; a few uneven wisps falling from the fix at mid-cheek. His eyes are perhaps the first thing one notices while confronting this elf face to face, for they are of liquid-like sheen, ash in color, though the right is clouded over with a stormy mist; lifeless as a frozen pond. This is not only a fault in his once-keen eyesight, but a sour reminiscence that lingers in the deepest parts of his distracted mind. A nasty scar that was perhaps once a gash slices through a corner of the lid of that same eye, running downwards to stop at a high cheekbone.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Solondil is one of few spoken words, though he is quite the intellectual; his mind nearly always bursting with thoughts. This is perhaps his greatest flaw, for his tendency to think too much and too hard has and will cause him to falter or choke in his decision-making, and during battle. At the same time, it is a virtue, for his layered pattern of thought often helps him to analyze a stranger or enemy, or to assess a situation or problem.

When first met he may seem cold or quite aloof, due to his poor conversation skills, but this image of person fades quickly as individuals realize the gentry and charm in his character. He is always willing, more or less prefers, to lend an ear, as he has a seemingly infinite supply of patience to try to exhaust. In turn, people come to him for a few words of wisdom, which he’s collected much of over the years, every now and again.

His greatest physical weakness is his shrouded eye. A grave encounter with a certain foe’s arrow carved a stripe into the orb itself and split the lid. The wound, long since healed, left him half blind and half as skilled with the bow. Even so, he has learned to cope, though the blackness he sees, or the images he doesn’t, is a constant reminder of dark memories past.

HISTORY: Born of the scholar Tholós of Lorien and his wife Celoënia, Solondil was one of their three children, the second-born and their only son. The younger sister, Orolindié, was taken by sickness at an early age, by the Elves’ reckoning, crippling the at last complete family sooner than expected. His elder sister, Aralomiel, was the one closest to his age. To her he looked to for wisdom and counsel. She passed centuries and centuries earlier, along with Celoënia. Mother and daughter had sailed west to meet Tholós, who had left long, long ago. The last of Tholós’ brood, Solondil spent long years in Rivendell, where things were not as isolated from the rest of Middle-Earth as was Lothlorien. He decided to return only after hearing his Lady’s, Galadriel’s call for tighter safekeeping at the borders.

Recruited as a sentinel in the train traveling back to Lorien, he headed the procession with a wary eye a top his steed, Aquel. A shrill cry of pain and the thump of something upon the hard ground caused his head to whip back, eyes wide as they rested upon the arrow-nestled corpse of one of the rear guards. News of the assault spread quickly throughout the train as the remainder of the watch, including Solondil, readied their bows at will. A few let fly in odd directions, the others waiting and watching to get a hold on enemy position, but before they could, a volley of black-feathered arrows descended upon the line like an ocean wave. Most of the falling points missed their targets, but a few on horseback were struck and fell. Returning that first volley with one of their own, the Elven company picked off quite a few of the dark creatures before the whole of the enemy force advanced, the front line drawing their steel, and the back sending more arrows.

Knocked off his mount by a rather heavy-set beast, and having spent the few arrows in his quiver, Solondil drew his short blade reluctantly and shifted into a defensive stance. The creature, more than ready to commence, froze abruptly, a wide grin showing his black teeth. Following his yellow eyes with his own grey ones, the elf turned his head ever slightly, and at that moment, an arrow shaft flew through the air to tear across his right eye. With a gasp he caught his breath, and his hands rose to unsuccessfully prevent blood from sputtering outwards. Through muffled ears, he heard the calming words of a comrade, and the clashing of steel on steel. The last thought he had was one of shame for being so careless, and the blackness took him.

He regained conciousness enveloped in the soft folds of a warm bed. Lothlorien. A good amount of the train members must have made it to the city alive, he thought to himself. He raised a hand to touch the white bandage about his head, nearly soaked through with a vibrant crimson where it covered the wound. He let out a drained sigh, closed his left eye and relaxed, accepting the fact that he’d not be able to see out of the right one in any amount of healing period. Time and a few herbs removed the bandages from his face, and with duel devotion and determination, he learned to use his bow with half his sight, though he reverted to using his sword when at all possible. In a year or so, he assumed the position of a border scout, as he had intended.

With more and more people leaving the city he stands to defend for the Havens to the west day by day, Solondil has ever heeded the small yearning in the back of his mind to depart along with, to see those love ones lost.
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Elfwine's post

The Elf held the piece of parchment between two long and calloused fingers. A cream colored ribbon held both ends of the note fast, and veiled the contents. Staring with wide eyes, one filled with wonderment and the other misted over, as always, Solondil reached with the hand at his side to open the letter that’d been given to him. Reading through it quickly, then carefully once again, he swallowed hard and followed the backs of Tanroth and Firiel with a steady grey gaze as they disappeared into the white light. His arms dropped, note in hand, and he cast his eyes downwards. This was what he’d been waiting for. This was it—yet why was he so hesitant, so afraid, so dreading?

Letting out a wary sigh, he folded the piece of paper into a minuscule section of what it could expand to, and murmured a silent prayor. Nodding to the others honored, he placed the note in his breast pocket and turned on his heel, leaving the meeting hall with a furrowed brow. Where the wide path continued on to his quaint home in the glowing city, he took a hard left towards where the trees grew thicker; denser. Olive-hued cloak sitting comfortably a top his narrow shoulders, he left for a last walk among the mallorn.

Tomorrow at sunrise.

[ October 04, 2003: Message edited by: Elfwine ]

[ October 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]