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milliways_bar2006-12-27 06:21 pm
gondolin-noble.livejournal.com) wrote in milliways_bar2006-12-27 06:21 pm
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He shoulders the door open, and once again, he is singing. Something soft, and slow, perhaps a song of the slow beat of sap in the trees in winter, or some small fuzzy creature sleeping the season away.
Or perhaps an older song, something to suit the longer nights, the shorter days, and the bone-deep cold of Imladris in the winter.
Either way, the singer lets the song fade away as he steps fully inside, his arms full of cut firewood, and looks around bemusedly.
Or perhaps an older song, something to suit the longer nights, the shorter days, and the bone-deep cold of Imladris in the winter.
Either way, the singer lets the song fade away as he steps fully inside, his arms full of cut firewood, and looks around bemusedly.