( gilxath: )
❝ You are no man, yet you speak their tongue. A High One does not sing familiarity to my ears. Where do you come from? There is no such tales of elven kind your size in Middle earth. ❞ Switching over to the Common Speech, Tauriel regarded the other female with wary ease, head tilted, waterfall of flame trailing down her back. Her bow lay loosely in her hands, but she found no true use for it, not yet. ❝ I speak Sindarin, a song of my people. Elves we are. You are on the edge of the Woodland Realm — known now as Mirkwood, for an evil settles amongst this wood, a growing malice. You would do well not to traverse our home alone, should you find yourself lost. ❞ The female left her curious. She was rather small. Some could even mistake her for a rather large hobbit, if it hadn’t been for the pointed elven like ears.
░▒▓ ⎨ ☾ ⎬ ▓▒░ “We came from the Wast, across the Ocean - we heard tales that the High Ones resided here, but perhaps those were only rumours that held no truth. We are elves, Wolfriders, but perhaps not the same elves of your kind. Say - can you glide?”
The height and stature of the elf reminded Moonshade of those they had met at Blue Mountain, the gliders of Winnowill who considered themselves High Ones, the last of their kind. But they had been all silver and starlight, and rarely did their feet rest on the ground - such was not the case of this elf.
“Forests are what my people call home - we are not afraid of the darkness that lingers between trees. As long as it is a place free of humans, then we have nothing to fear.” 【✯】
