Scarburg Meadhall

[Firefoot]

Léof roused as early as ever, though for once he wished he had not. He cracked open his eyes and could see out his small window that the sky was just barely beginning to lighten. He shut his eyes again, flipped over to face the wall, and burrowed deeper into his blankets. Just for one morning, the horses could wait… why did they have to eat so often, anyway?

But there was no help for it. This was the hour his body was used to waking up at, and though his scratchy eyes begged otherwise, Léof soon gave up on trying to go back to sleep. Bracing himself for the chill, he threw back his blankets and jumped out of bed before he could change his mind. He splashed some water on his face from his small basin and got dressed, his movements somewhat more sluggish than usual. After a moment of fumbling with his breeches, he realized that he'd pulled them on backwards. Ugh, he really was tired. How late had he stayed up last night, anyway? He wondered as stripped them back off to put them on right, then sat down to tug on his boots. It hadn’t seemed so late at the time, with laughter and tales in his head, mead in his veins, and dancing in his feet.

All of his clothing properly in place, he stood up, unlatched his door, and let himself out into the stable aisle. He drew in a deep breath, smelling the wonderful mingled scents of horseflesh and cold, crisp mountain air – and breakfast beginning to cook. He shivered, and wondered if the women might oblige him with something warm. He could sure use it this morning.

The horses were only just beginning to stir; they could wait a few more minutes. His mind made up, he set off for the kitchen. As he emerged from the stables, he saw the kitchen door open and shut as someone went inside, briefly splashing the yard with a rectangle of light. He made his way quickly over and opened the door wide enough to stick his head in. “Good morning, ladies,” he said. “Might I bother you for something warm before breakfast?”

[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.