[Elora]

Naiore

Hobbits can move with astonishing stealth. However, the stony ground was a match for even a Wraith. Such had been Naiore's reasoning in the selection of her retreat where she presently awaited the return of Barrold.

She'd not squandered her time alone. A few hours of rest before dawn had done wonders, even if it was snatched with one eye warily open to catch any wandering hobbits, or Wraiths. The morning Naiore had spent going over her pack. Her many years spent travelling far and quickly had resulted in her efficency. She still carried the bulk of her weaponry.

Most of the implements of her skill had been left behind at Minas Morgul and Barad-Dur, though not by her choice. Had she been able to, she'd have taken a few cleverer pieces with her. Still, Naiore was able to take a moment to examine what she did have. Daggers all rested safe and well in their sheaths, well oiled and as finely balanced as the day she first took delivery of them. They were a rare handicraft, and she well recalled their origin.

The Man who had so obligingly travelled to trade for the set of eight and fetched them from her kindred had died with a look of eternal shock upon his face. She'd gone easy on him, for he had done her a service. It was much easier to take them from him on his road back to whatever mannish warren he was on his way to than it would have been to get at where they had resided with their craftsmen.

Many years had slid past since that theft, but the daggers retained their integrity yet. Her garrot was also examined for any hint of wear or thinning. Naiore carefully passed the silken strands through her hands that morning, using the light and her keen sight to check them. Silk was stronger than steel, an irony that was far from lost upon her. She coiled it tenderly and stowed it. Then there was the matter of the food, clothing and consumables.

Food and consumables, tinctures and poisions and the ilk, Barrold would shortly supply. Naiore took a glance at the sky. The oaf had best appear soon or he'd rue forcing her out to track him down. She turned to the clothing. It was a poor shadow of her habitual finery. One piece only had she been able to retain, a violet silk that seemed to shimmer with the gathered light of all the dusks of the Ages. Over that sat some of her heavier pieces, leathers and a corsolet of fine, ebony, steel mesh that was bundled in a once proudly worn inky cloak.

Not the rags of Wraiths for her, she recalled. She would sweep through those dark halls, garbed as finely as any Elven lady throughout the lands, opulent wealth would gleam from her throat and wrist. Such jewellry was now mostly spent. The Girion Emeralds, the rubies and opals, the diamonds. All gone, except the sapphires, but Naiore had no interest in ever looking upon those gems ever again. They'd also been left to be found by whatever scion of Gondor's rabble happened through her former chambers at the conclusion of the war.

As all this passed, Naiore unpacking and then repacking her possessions in the midst of thick memories, the sun wheeled overhead. Absorbed as she was, Naiore was not beyond the presence of reality. She was far too disciplined to slip into nostaliga whilst on campaign. Inwardly, her senses were poised should she detect that familiar presence. Alert as she was, she could already sense a twisting pain, shadowed and a memory now, or so she thought.... a memory that she too shared. Kaldir....

As Naiore's deft fingers tied her pack shut, the unmistakable sound of feet on the stones without carried faintly to her. The Ravennor paused, eyes now sharply intent, for a moment. Then she burst into swift action, breaking her seeming suspension. By the time Toby Longholes had ventured into the mouth of the cave, Naiore was ensconced in a shadow nearby.

She watched the hobbit with eyes narrowed in thought. He was wary, it rolled off from him in great waves, and he was excited. About what? Naiore had chosen to conceal herself close to the entrance so as to make the most of penning this intruder into the cave.

He carefully stepped past, and Naiore felt a surge of hatred gripped her. Such folk were the chief instrument of her present predictament. His eyes darted about, adjusting to the dimmer light within the cave. Her garrot was in her hand, ready as she heard him say in his light, clear hobbit voice, "Serves him right."

Naiore paused a moment longer, sweeping the immediate area for any other hint of a Ranger or other companion. When she found none, she smiled. In the darkness, it was a symbol of perfect elven beauty, as she rose from where she crouched with smooth grace.

"Justice is a slippery creature to manage."

Toby, to his credit, whirled quickly at the sound of her musical voice. Naiore had pitched it low and quiet, and she met the hobbit's astonished mien with her own serene expression. Toby's gaze wandered up to her face. Naiore could see him piece the separate facts together.

Each time his brow quirked, Naiore felt a corresponding desire to tighten her silk around his neck. Quirk, the black leather that encased her from heel to throat. Quirk, the silk in her gloved hands. Quirk, the baldric and sword that peeked over her shoulder. Quirk, the pale blonde hair famed of her family bound into plaits. Quirk, the Elven features in peaceful repose. Quirk, starlight eyes that held no hint of warmth.

"Oh," he managed to say.

"To whom do I have the pleasure of extending the hospitality of my dwelling?" Naiore's question bore the culivated modulation of one born to nobility. Toby's eyes simply widened, if that was possible. They were already saucers in his pale face. The Ranger's pouch dangled all but forgotten in his fist and his gaze flicked to the light shining behind her from his route of escape.

"I must insist you remain, to keep me company, for the moment." Naiore took a fluid step closer to Toby, garrot still ready. It had been so long since her garrot had drunk from the cup of death.

"Naiore Dannan, I am named, Lady of the Swan. I would very much like to know by what you are called, and I am accustomed to getting that which I seek." Naiore was coiled in readiness to strike at the merest twitch. Her senses screamed to be allowed the release to taste and search for her answer.

Fear eddied through the hobbit, he radiated with it. Perhaps he knew from where fear spawns.