Scarburg Meadhall

[littlemanpoet]

He had walked through the night. The stars had been clear in the sky all night. One could see from horizon to horizon on these rolling plains.

He was used to trees, tall as towers, his vision limited by them, and that was home. He had known that it would be different, and had not been sure he would like it. So he was glad when he could see them arcing across the sky in their nightly dance.

The sun had risen. There was smoke rising in the distance, just beyond an abrasion in the land. It was not a rolling hill, but a scar on the land, something left behind by the first Dark Lord, perhaps, ages ago. There were humble trees there, too, beyond that rough and rocky terrain that seemed to stretch as far as even an Elven eye could see. He was reluctant to go there.

You have meant to see humans. This is your first chance. Why skirt it?

There were many reasons. But the purpose of this journey had been from the first to transcend those many reasons, to see these Fourth Age humans as they were, foibles and failures and weaknesses and all. He turned toward the scar.

He came to a stop at the crest of the first rise. They will think it cold. The mist of his breath sped on the wind south, away across the rough rises. There was a woman trudging from a hen house to the great room from which the smoke rose. She was fair to look upon. He allowed a sad smirk. No, he would not be tempted to play at bringing Half Elves into the world. That had been done, and no need anymore.

He walked down the slope, up the next, down, up, and came to the final crest. He knew he could not be seen because of his cloak. He parted it and cast it back over his shoulders, and doffed the hood from his head. Let one see me first. Then I will go in.