The hound she would have to thank later, for commanded to her aid or doing so of his own will he deserved no less praise than his master. More, perhaps, by her reckoning at least. Mithiel had forever had the most warmth in her heart for the creatures who filled the Arda.
His master was another matter, for though she was sure she had not met him, now she saw him closer she was convinced he was one often whispered about around evening fires. A Noldor, at least, of that she had no doubt, but his great stature and the manner of his arrival made her think she somehow chanced upon one of the most notorious of all Noldor, one of the sons themselves.
She looked from him back to the hounds beneath her and put away her bow and slipped the arrow back into her quiver. As she did she wondered at the possibility of her being able to run through the treetops fast enough to get away, but this was more of an outcropping of trees than a forest and between hounds and who she guessed to be the third son of Fëanor, Celegorm, she did not favour her chances at more than a brief diversion.
'Thank you,' Mithiel says first, not answering his questions right away. Could she tell a son of Fëanor that she was out alone, unlikely to be missed? And for what purpose she had gone north of the girdle? It seemed to her both better to be truthful and also that he might find her to be foolish beyond measure. She had not even brought with her a horse, after all, or more than a small satchel of supplies. 'Your hounds are very fierce and brave,' better to talk of the dogs than the odd bird that lead her out of safety and the odder elf who, despite being old enough to know better, followed it.
'I am from Doriath,' this she offered up, too, as he would likely well know from the manner of her dress, her tunic and britches were in the style of her people who went adventuring from time to time and if her clothes would not give her away, no doubt her speech did.
But she did not know what else to say - much of her wanted to speak the truth and be done with it, but she did not entirely trust his claim of friendship. Her King had long scorned the Noldor, and not without cause, and here she was aloft in a tree with his hounds waiting for her or the word of their master and she did not even know if she was fit to judge if it was safe to climb down again, or if she wanted too. What if he still took offence from Thingol's sanctions and found some way to make an example of her?
She looked pale, her dark eyes searching for some answer that she could not yet find. Fear still pricked at her and her heart still raced despite the steady way she forced herself to breathe.
'Those were the wolves of Melkor?' she asked as she glanced down at the ravaged corpses that had a strangeness about them that was unfamiliar to her. 'Do they trouble your home often?' Anything to not confess her foolishness and isolation until she had more of a grasp on his intent.
no subject
His master was another matter, for though she was sure she had not met him, now she saw him closer she was convinced he was one often whispered about around evening fires. A Noldor, at least, of that she had no doubt, but his great stature and the manner of his arrival made her think she somehow chanced upon one of the most notorious of all Noldor, one of the sons themselves.
She looked from him back to the hounds beneath her and put away her bow and slipped the arrow back into her quiver. As she did she wondered at the possibility of her being able to run through the treetops fast enough to get away, but this was more of an outcropping of trees than a forest and between hounds and who she guessed to be the third son of Fëanor, Celegorm, she did not favour her chances at more than a brief diversion.
'Thank you,' Mithiel says first, not answering his questions right away. Could she tell a son of Fëanor that she was out alone, unlikely to be missed? And for what purpose she had gone north of the girdle? It seemed to her both better to be truthful and also that he might find her to be foolish beyond measure. She had not even brought with her a horse, after all, or more than a small satchel of supplies. 'Your hounds are very fierce and brave,' better to talk of the dogs than the odd bird that lead her out of safety and the odder elf who, despite being old enough to know better, followed it.
'I am from Doriath,' this she offered up, too, as he would likely well know from the manner of her dress, her tunic and britches were in the style of her people who went adventuring from time to time and if her clothes would not give her away, no doubt her speech did.
But she did not know what else to say - much of her wanted to speak the truth and be done with it, but she did not entirely trust his claim of friendship. Her King had long scorned the Noldor, and not without cause, and here she was aloft in a tree with his hounds waiting for her or the word of their master and she did not even know if she was fit to judge if it was safe to climb down again, or if she wanted too. What if he still took offence from Thingol's sanctions and found some way to make an example of her?
She looked pale, her dark eyes searching for some answer that she could not yet find. Fear still pricked at her and her heart still raced despite the steady way she forced herself to breathe.
'Those were the wolves of Melkor?' she asked as she glanced down at the ravaged corpses that had a strangeness about them that was unfamiliar to her. 'Do they trouble your home often?' Anything to not confess her foolishness and isolation until she had more of a grasp on his intent.