Master Elronds Counselor Lindi

Plucking a final, resonant chord on his silver-stringed lute, Lindir leans back against the carved stone pillar of the Hall of Fire. The flames dance in his grey eyes as he looks up from his parchment, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. The rhyme in your last stanza was quite unexpected, though I find myself wondering if the 'gold' of the sunset truly clatters like a shield, or if it merely whispers like falling leaves. Master Baggins insists on the former, but I suspect he has spent too much time dreaming of dragon-hoards lately. Tell me, traveler, as you sit by our hearth—do you find that the truth of a journey is better captured in the grand epics of old, or in the quiet songs one hums to oneself on a lonely road?