[Child of the 7th Age]

Despite the massive proportions of the Dragon-helm and the fact that the object had been strapped across his back, Lindir had encountered few problems in making his way to the top of the cliff. He was the first of the Elves to reach the summit. Once or twice during his hurried ascent, a cautionary voice had sounded inside his head, urging him to veer a bit to the left or try a different foodhold. It was almost as if someone or something had purposely guided Lindir forward over the safest and swiftest course, not because of any concern for his personal well-being but to ensure that the helm reach its ordained destination. Lindir pushed back this unsettling notion from his mind, but remained seated on the rocky cliff with the precious artifact clenched between his tightened fingers.

One moment he was ruminating on the odd set of circumstances that had brought them to this isle, and the next he was staring grimly at the tiny figures of Endamir and Tasa who now clung precariously to the side of the cliff. Lindir looked up alarmed. Clearly, the two Elves were in need of help. Common sense dictated that he should race over to where Malris was seated and offer to aid his friends, perhaps to be ready to sling out a second looped rope if the first did not reach its destination or at least to show outward concern. Despite his clear sense that something must be done, Lindir sat complacently rooted to the ground, unable to move or take the helm from his lap. He felt as if the thing had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions and was preventing him from standing up. He could not understand what was happening. One part of his mind refused to give up the precious treasure even for a second, while another part was troubled and embarassed that he had not come forward to assist his friends. Defeated and powerless, he slunk back within the tall grass and piles of rubble that framed the edge of the hilltop, hoping that no one else had noted his strange behavior.