Toren Neminis

Hello, I am many years late; but I wanted to say how thankful I am that this exists. Exploring Aegis again brought back such wonderful memories. I managed to find my home again in old Laurelin. Now, I can spruce up the place and surrounding area with new blocks. What fun!

*As is his habit, Toren walks past Native's home in his travels through and then onwards to the lands beyond the Cloud Temple. This time, a fluttering parchment hung on the entrance of the tent catches his eye. With a furrowed brow, he reads the notice. His expression softens once the words impress upon the Elf that Native is simply taking leave for a trip. Toren smiles rather faintly, recalling the memories of the once High Prince. Toren lifts his head and looks about suddenly, turning on the spot, wondering if he has missed Native by very long. With his keen, cerulean eyes the Elf catches the familiar sight and silhouette of his old friend upon the path as he makes towards the central platform. Noticing that Native is rather encumbered by a heavy pack, Toren merely calls out, waving as he does so,* Safe travels, Native! May Malin always smile his blessings upon you! Good health and good fortune!

*Passing by the Cloud Temple on his way elsewhere, he hears that Prince James has been found but that the Flormai Elfling is still wanted. He presses his lips together into a thin frown.* "What a mess," he says, shaking his head. *He continues on his journey, brow still furrowed with worry.*

*As Toren is making his way towards the city of Normandor, his eyes catch the slight fluttering movement of something wedged in the wall. With each breath of the cool breeze, the paper, he realizes it is a paper, trembles as though in an attempt to free itself from its prison between the two gray bricks. Brow furrowed in curiosity, the Elf kneels and then ever so gently tugs and dislodges the folded parchment so as to prevent any tears. How has this made it here? he wonders to himself. He rights himself whilst unfolding the paper. The parchment beneath the pads of his fingertips feels old and the swirling golden vine filigree looks faded as though Malinor is not the first place it has found itself. Toren briefly peruses the contents within and realizes that it is a letter, a personal one at that. He knows of no "Winter" nor of her sister "Summer". But "Salvus", "Eastfields", "Riven", and the other named places -- these are all locations that he has encountered before in his travels. The Elf traces the snowflake with his forefinger before folding the paper carefully once more. He slips it into his pocket. Toren decides he will return it as he is almost certain Malinor was not its intended destination.* "Riven...," he murmurs to himself softly, "I hope my memory serves me correctly and I am able to find this 'Winter'."