The Return Of A Sylvari

[Fid 566]

~Mood Music~

 

 

 

 

 

The Warden was against the central pillar of the wooden watchtower, waiting out his mundane and uneventful shift. He hated it, the watching and waiting... such a boring and pointless job. There is no heroism in being a guard.... After all, what is a soldier without a war? As he grumbled these thoughts to himself for the eightieth time that day, his dark green eyes glanced at the great column of cloud fixed over the ocean. The storm in the western sea had been raging for days, a single solid roiling storm cloud, sending down torrents of rain. The fishing boats had all pulled in a few days back, deeming the waters too dangerous.

 

It was therefore a shock to the Warden when his sharp eyes caught sight of a single white sail, making its way towards land over the rolling sea. Throwing himself forward, the uniformed elf stared, eyes bugged out. "What the... what..." With a trembling hand, he reached for his alarm horn and blew three loud blasts, echoing over the vast forests below. Dropping the horn, he gripped the railing so hard his knuckles turned white. "Aeriel protect them..."

 

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“Onward, mali, for a homecoming such as this one must be grand.” the dark-haired elf shouts over the gale, raising his arm to point towards the landmass, where the grand trees of Malinor stand. “We’ll run her aground!”

 

“The boat, Eleron! She’ll break on the rocks!” a second elf protests, long silvery hair whipping around in the rising wind, “We should find a safe harbour!” His voice carries a touch of hysteria, his eyes rimmed-red from the frantic storm-driven activity of the last few days.

The first elf smiles grimly, turning to him, “It’s a small price to pay.” With this laconic statement, he vaults up to the swan figurehead, facing the beach as the ship speeds towards the mainland. .

There is a massive, splintering thud as the speedy elvish boat crashes into the sandy beach, the birch hull splintering from the impact. With an elegant, acrobatic leap that is so smooth it almost seems practiced, the elf disembarks his ruined vessel.

There is a quiet hiss as his grey tooled-leather boots hit the ground, one following the other. Without breaking pace, the tall elf ambles forth, taking long strides across the wet sand. Behind him, the rising wind of the storm front worries the sails of the ‘Southwynd’, outlining the several elven figures who vault out of the grounded ship.

With a spray of sand, the elven captain comes to a halt, his dark grey-blue eyes scanning the assembling crowd of Malinorean citizens. Even as he watches, a figure detaches from treeline and joins the growing mob. Silently, the elf raises his arms out as if in prayer, not saying a word. His mouth is grim, his eyes burning with a fiery intensity. Finally, the arms come down, and the elf speaks.

“Go find Lafthi” he barks, rain running in rivulets down his angular and aquiline face. “Tell him that Eleron Silvari has returned.” Not bothering to wait for a response, the grim elf squares his shoulders and starts off towards Luminaire, brushing through the onlookers with terse grace. His crew follow, passing between the onlookers like sand through a sieve.

 

 

 

 

[Moot 1719]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.