Island of Sorrow RPG

[piosenniel]

Endamir stood on the edge of the small group, watching their host as he greeted the others. Malris had such an easy way about him still and Endamir could see the affection with which he greeted Tasa. His grey eyes had brightened with delight at the sight of her it seemed. A pleasant change from older memories of a grim and hard eyed leader. Endamir wondered what else had changed about the companion he had fought next to many times. And the others,too, how had they changed?

He had heard often enough from those men who came to Rivendell how beautiful and graceful they thought the Elves. How the years seemed not to touch them, but only to add a deeper air of fair charm . . . and of distance, too, they had said. ‘It seems a true enough observation,’ he thought, glancing at his companions. ‘But what lies beneath the mask, I wonder.’

In silvered mirrors that graced the halls in Imladris, reflecting the ageless beauty of the place, he had often chanced to catch a fleeting image of himself. More often than not he had purposely kept his eyes from the reflections, especially on those days when old memories haunted his footsteps. The fair mask he wore would slip, then. A certain sadness – no, shame, he named it - and weariness would cloud his features as faces as fair as his own rose up clamoring for answers.

He had made his way round to where Lómwë stood, near Tasa. ‘Greetings to you, Lómwë,’ he said. ‘How was your journey from the Golden Wood? Uneventful, I hope.’ He smiled looking about the ship. ‘One last adventure, eh? Sightseeing amidst the ruins of past glories; a last stand on the battlements of Beleriand.’ He pointed to where Orëmir was stowing their gear on deck. ‘My blade is sharpened and a new string graces my bow. I wonder what Malris has planned. If there are any foe left to vanquish on that cold, chill isle. Shall we be young again and full of ourselves a last time before we sail West?’ He shivered as a cool breeze blew over the bow of The Ghostbearer. Endamir laughed, breaking the gloomy tenor of his words. ‘Just a weary, old Elf. Woolgathering. Think naught of it. Come, tell me a little of yourself, if you will.’

Before Lómwë could answer, Lindir had appeared; springing up from the bushes near the ship like some quick ghost himself. ‘Madness?’ echoed Endamir, letting the Elf’s dire words fall into silence before speaking. ‘Perhaps it is madness, I cannot say yes or no to that.’ He leaned over the siderail of the ship. ‘I can say I agree with you on the last of your words, though. Let us go straight away into the West and leave the dead and ruined to the waves.’