Elrohir fell asleep in one world only to find himself in the ghost of another. He sat by the a roaring fire, slowly strumming his lute and staring at nothing in particular. The glow of the fire created sparkles in his vision and deepened the shadows of the night around him. A soft breeze brushed through the trees, but apart from the echoing tune of the lute, it was a quiet night. “That’s a sad-ass song,” came the voice of a dwarf from across the fire. Turim laid staring at him from across the fire. “I’m not sure I recognize the tune. What’s it about?” “Loss,” Elrohir whispered, half to himself. “My apologies, I thought you were asleep.” “I was until I awoke crying into my beard!” Turim let out a deep guttural dwarf chuckle. He sat up, giving up on sleep for the moment, and reached towards his pack. He pulled out a large wineskin and took a giant swig. The sounds of his gulping were all that filled the night for a few moments. “You know,” Turim continued, wiping the back of his hand across his bearded mouth, “I still don’t understand why a man of your talent is slumming it on the road with the likes of me. A man who can make a dwarf cry with naught but strumming on the lute could make a pretty penny in any city of his choice. You could play for kings, friend, I mean it.” Elrohir set down his instrument and picked up the longsword at his side. He unsheathed it and began rubbing it with an oiled rag, clearing any imperfection from the metal, reflecting reds and oranges in the firelight. “I can’t stop moving, not yet anyways. Maybe someday, but not yet.” “What are you looking for, El? What do you expect to find here in the middle of nowhere?” Elrohir was stopped cleaning the sword. He was quiet for a moment before answering. “Something that cannot be found. The only thing I seek I have already lost.” He returned to his cleaning the blade, new intent and focus in the movement of his hand. “That’s sad as hells,” the dwarf said, feigning wiping away a tear and taking another swig from the wineskin. “No wonder all your songs are so bleak.” Silence. “Well, I’m glad to have met you, Elrohir Battlebard. Makes the travel less quiet. I enjoy your company, even if it is a somber one.” The dwarf chuckled. “Huh. Battlebard. Do you even know how to use that sword? It looks far too shiny to have seen any real use.” The chuckle turned into a full-fledged laughter. Elrohir just stared at him, offended, and perhaps a little ashamed. “C’mon, El. There’s an hour or two left until dawn. We can get some training in now. No use having you for a traveling companion if you’re just going to be killed at the first sign of bandits.” Turim stood up, grabbed the axe that had been laying next to him, and took two large dwarven bounds away from the fire before turning back to Elrohir. “Oh,” added the dwarf, “and I hope you have coin, because we’ll definitely be getting you some real armor. The rags you’re wearing couldn’t stop a feather, let alone the arrow its attached to. Honestly, I don’t know what you’d do without me.” Another guttural laugh. Elrohir didn’t say anything. He simply got up and followed the dwarf away from the fire. But, as Turim turned back around, leading the way, for the first time in a long time, a small smile creeped across Elrohir’s lips.
Ilya - Wife (deceased) 2 children (deceased)