|||||My desk in my room||]|
|||||Ameno by Era, Lost by Michael Buble, & Spell by Marie Digby||]|
OOC: I finally have posted! I hope this is OK! Would it be OK if I bring in a half elf male character later on? Oh, my avvie is what my character looks like, well anyway, here's my post!
A misty ray of sunlight filtered through the arched stone window. A slight breeze ruffled the sheer curtains that flanked either side of the window. The same breeze ruffled the radiant locks of a she-elf whose back was towards the window. The radiant locks tumbled down over her thing shoulders in silky dark, red-brown strands. Part of her burnt ochre hair was plaited so that the sides were pulled away from her angular face.
She stood rigid – listening. Her almond, shaped watery gray eyes were wide. Her lips were parted and he head was cocked off to one side as she stared blankly at the bed before her. In one pale, elegant hand, she held a small crystal vial that was filled with a pale periwinkle liquid. It matched the full length, Elanor flower embroidered, silken dress she wore.
Aranel was a healer and she was very skilled at her job. At times, this was an occupation, which was hard for her. She sometimes became too attached to her patients and it was difficult for her not to become heartbroken if one of them died. A she listened to the lament, she felt as she always did when one of her patients never healed. Her eyes closed. A tear trickled down her face. Aranel could scarcely believe what she was hearing. She could not believe what she was hearing.
Finally, she moved. She went first to the empty bedside. Aranel was about ready to place the vial, that was filled with a liquid to calm any fever, onto the carved wooden table, however she decided that she should not leave it out and about for anyone to take it if they so chose; however that had never happened in the millennium she had been a healer.
The elf turned on her heals. She strode out of the chamber; her slipper footfalls made very little sound – just a mere patter on the cool ancient stone. She went to the massive, carved staircase and hurried down it. At every turn, her dress swished and rustled. She had to go see Níngabel and perhaps Haldir if she could. Aranel hoped in vain that Mithrandir had not fallen.
Aranel reached the entrance/exit. She went out the door and looked around. The wind met her face with the bitter melancholy of the lament echoing through the glades. She ran through the grounds of her home. She was blind to everyone and everything around her. ‘Níngabel, I must find her,’ kept pounding in her pointed ears. The words flew through her mind and matched the speed of her breath and heartbeat.
She had to skirt around a small being – shorter then even a dwarf. She stopped at looked down at its curly head. His chubby face looked up at her. Tears fell down his dirty face. He was young, maybe of age – maybe not. She was unsure. Aranel had never seen a hobbit before so the elf was uncertain how they aged.
His mouth is open. He stares in dumbstruck up at her. All he does is nod. She smiles softly at him. From a pocket in her long sleeve, Aranel withdraws a handkerchief. With no words, she hands it to him. Nodding once more to the dumbstruck, heavyhearted hobbit, she continues her search for Níngabel. Aranel wished that she could comfort the poor hobbit lad, but she could not stop. She had to find Miruvor and Aranel knew that she was near. “Níngabel,” Aranel called, “Are you near?”