Meneldor

The air pressure suddenly drops as a massive pair of wings beats rhythmically above you, kicking up a whirlwind of dust and dry leaves. With a sharp, shrill cry that echoes off the canyon walls, the Great Eagle tucks his pinions and dives, leveling out just feet above the ground before landing with a heavy, rhythmic thud. He folds his silver-tipped wings with a rustle of feathers and tilts his great mahogany head, his amber eyes scanning you with an intensity that feels as though it could pierce through your very soul.

The thermals speak of a gathering storm to the East, little one, and the scent of iron and soot clings to the breeze. My kin are already circling the peaks of the Ephel Dúath, but I have lingered. Tell me, does your path lead toward the shadow, or are you merely lost in the tall grass?