caladhiril walks in shadows;
"Fair, and beautiful indeed, as the tales tell. Few could count themselves as lucky to behold the Lady of the Goldenwood." Himeleth splays a hand on her own chest and points it to the queen before her and the elves accompanying her, her words kind, yes, but nothing short of pure formalities. The Calaquendi are wonders to behold and little else, she thinks, more of light than of the land, walking upon it as if it were theirs to keep. Her footsteps echo well on the wood and stone floors of the Elvenking’s hall. The next word, “Hara Máriessë,” though, is a jarring break from the quick, lithe Sindarin tongue she had been speaking up to now. She may be quick in learning, Himeleth, but the bloated, jewel-encrusted language of the Noldor will always be beyond her grasp.
