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<blockquote data-quote="Lackhand" data-source="post: 3808635" data-attributes="member: 36160"><p>Himura: When Val leaves, Vára gazes after him longingly. She follows you docilely to a war hearth with a crock of soup. The place is dark, lit by candles set on the tables at in lanterns in the rafters, with smiling waitstaff and delicious scents.</p><p></p><p>The food is hotter than it is tasty, but does some good removing the bite of the day. Vára watches you stumble over your words with some amuseent, listening to everything you have to say with clear interest.</p><p></p><p>"I am a widow of the people of Valenar; my husband, my <em>melemaë</em>, was Soronen the swift, the strong, the fierce. He was my lion in war, and fell magnificently." She's flushed and more present than she has been all night, with the mad light of poverty dimmed by the intensity of her love. </p><p></p><p>Her face as she remembers the exploits of a man ten-years dead is quite literally inhuman.</p><p></p><p>The voices of elves can be as disquieting as they are beautiful. The lights are attracted to her hair and skin, and she seems to glow with inner strength which has no part of. The serving-folk seem to fade away, the chatter of factory workers and murmers of shopkeepers all fade before her still-fresh pain.</p><p></p><p>She asks for more, and is served by a blushing chit of a girl, who gazes in rapt, dirt-smudged attention at this marvel.</p><p></p><p>It is three hours past twelve-bells, when each tavern-goer realizes that, unconsciously, they have been holding their collective breaths. </p><p></p><p>"Himura of Q'Barra, I thank you and name you elf-friend, for this night and this conversation, and kindness shown to a woman in grief."</p><p></p><p>Suddenly, she is once more a frightened, dirty girl, alone in the world. The night is old, and cold, and long.</p><p></p><p></p><p>Val: Elves don't sleep, they trance, and words and symbols dance before your eyes. The ash turns up no more detail now than it had before. Emerikol did indeed maintain a book of arcane lore, much of which is incomprehensible to you. One night's exaination is insuficient to decode his crabbed scrawl, alas.</p><p></p><p>You keep a lonely, candle-lit vigil.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lackhand, post: 3808635, member: 36160"] Himura: When Val leaves, Vára gazes after him longingly. She follows you docilely to a war hearth with a crock of soup. The place is dark, lit by candles set on the tables at in lanterns in the rafters, with smiling waitstaff and delicious scents. The food is hotter than it is tasty, but does some good removing the bite of the day. Vára watches you stumble over your words with some amuseent, listening to everything you have to say with clear interest. "I am a widow of the people of Valenar; my husband, my [i]melemaë[/i], was Soronen the swift, the strong, the fierce. He was my lion in war, and fell magnificently." She's flushed and more present than she has been all night, with the mad light of poverty dimmed by the intensity of her love. Her face as she remembers the exploits of a man ten-years dead is quite literally inhuman. The voices of elves can be as disquieting as they are beautiful. The lights are attracted to her hair and skin, and she seems to glow with inner strength which has no part of. The serving-folk seem to fade away, the chatter of factory workers and murmers of shopkeepers all fade before her still-fresh pain. She asks for more, and is served by a blushing chit of a girl, who gazes in rapt, dirt-smudged attention at this marvel. It is three hours past twelve-bells, when each tavern-goer realizes that, unconsciously, they have been holding their collective breaths. "Himura of Q'Barra, I thank you and name you elf-friend, for this night and this conversation, and kindness shown to a woman in grief." Suddenly, she is once more a frightened, dirty girl, alone in the world. The night is old, and cold, and long. Val: Elves don't sleep, they trance, and words and symbols dance before your eyes. The ash turns up no more detail now than it had before. Emerikol did indeed maintain a book of arcane lore, much of which is incomprehensible to you. One night's exaination is insuficient to decode his crabbed scrawl, alas. You keep a lonely, candle-lit vigil. [/QUOTE]
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