died in your arms, ba/stille ( 7 8 )
' i do not see an easy way to get out of this. ' lord caranthir, donning all the livery that befits his status — and probably a little more, to befit his wealth — does not dismount from his steed. the elf looks down upon @ouorboros, a woman ( a lady of quite notable beauty, he privately admits, but still of the atani, still mortal and frail ). ' these are my lands i find you carelessly wandering about. ' voice as cold as lake helevorn in the throes of winter, and stare possibly even more so as he carefully inspects her clothes. ' have you lost your way? ' he dons evident disbelief as well as his fine robes, lips curling reluctantly around a language that is not his own. she is not of the haladin, of this he is sure.