[Child of the 7th Age]

For a while Lindir drifted aimlessly about, half awake, half asleep, uncertain where he was going except that a will stronger than his own was pulling him towards the fortress. Despite his own lack of control, the sensation was not unpleasant. It seemed easier to be carried along haphazardly with the current, as if inside a great protective bubble, rather than thrashing about and trying to resist. In any case, how could be resist? He had no hands or arms, no head or eyes, and as yet had no real idea how to control his spirit form, which was flitting in circles, first this way, then that. He did not even have the correct words to describe the sensations he was feeling. He could somehow see and smell and touch by using only his feä, although his physical form had entirely vanished. He still found himself clinging to words and images more appropriately applied to the old Lindir, an incarnate creature with a physical self. He could not yet imagine his existence any other away.

He supposed he should be alarmed at this strange situation, but somehow nothing seemed to matter any more. Then, without warning, Lindir felt a sensation so strong that he could not ignore it. Cold! Cold! How could a feä without a body be so cold?

An icy blast had gusted down from the restless sea to the north, commanded by some chance wind that battered against the small isle and seemed to be focused on Lindir alone; the chilled air accompanying it pushed the Elf out of his comfortable womb and brought him back to his senses as he bounced violently up and down in the wind drafts above the fortress, still wondering if he should go inside the fort. There were creatures down below but whether friendly or not Lindir could not tell. Something was still pulling him forward, yet another voice from within now refused to be silent and was frantically urging him to turn back to see something.

From his perch above the massive hill, he could see or at least sense the entire configuration of the isle. The land was poor and rugged, the shore jagged with rocks, a lonely place with grey shadows where no ship would willingly beach. Whatever strange creatures dwelled within this doomed fortress, there had been no mannish or Elven visitors here for countless years.

Now awake and unable to ignore the cautionary voice, Lindir suddenly pulled back and whirled around so that he had a clear view of the half broken gate where his companions stood waiting. He looked once, then twice, staring in disbelief. His slumped body, once prostrate on the ground, was now half standing and attempting to talk. First puzzlement, then anger, poured out from Lindir's feä. No object he had ever crafted, no fine sword or jewelled helm, looked as precious and shining as his broken body as it stood half upright on the ground.

Enraged at what he was seeing, the hapless Elf cried out in a voice that could not be heard. What trick is this? Who dares steal my body? Bandit and thief, you shall not touch a hair on my head. Leave here now!

With a determined heave, Lindir tossed off the inertia that threatened to imprison him forever and resisted the urge to slip docilely inside the fortress. Instead, he swooped down to confront his newly animated body and began pounding relentlessly against the unknown spirit that had wrongfully occupied the familiar shell, all the while bellowing at his companions to warn them about the no-good trickster. Even while trying to create a ruckus, Lindir was very careful not to do harm to the physical form that the stranger had apparently borrowed. The Elf continued with his assault but grumbled to his companions, much as he had done in the old days of battle: I need a healer over here quickly.....someone to bind up this wound.