Atop Amon Thranduil

The stony shoulder of Thranduil's hill rises out of the surrounding forest; a rocky grey outcrop littered with great boulders and thin seams of soil where plants have taken root. All about the foot of the hill, small lights flicker in the treetop homes of elves and further to the east bright firelight marks both Celebannon and Esgaroth. In the darkness, a silvery light seems to trace a spiral from the top of the hill around its smooth pate until it falls off the edge of a steep rockface.

The wind constantly whips across the top of Amon Thranduil, pushing and piling dry needles fallen from hilltop pines into long ruddy rivers which snake across the bare rock like seaweed left by lapping waves at a high tide line, and twisting trees into all manner of fantastic shapes. Doubtless left alone the pines and aspen which cling tenuously to the little rocky soil found up here would grow straight, yet buffeted constantly by wind and subject to the worst of spring storms, their limbs are gnarled and crooked, writhing about each other in a manner not seen in the more protected forest below. The wind has a warmth that seems quite joyful, carrying upon it a scent of green and growth.

A light rain falls in a grey mist from the clouds that drift through the spring sky, and small glistening rivulets roll across the slick rocky top of the hill. The pattering of droplets on trees and shrubs and bare stone alike is gentle in the midnight forest.

The land is grey; grey stones masked in grey mist. A low blanket of cloud hang overhead, and it, unsurprisingly, is also violent shades of grey, shifting and changing tones as the higher winds buffet them. All appears dark and grey, for even the midnight stars are hidden away; reflected only in the rain-shrouded lights of houses somewhere below the hill.

Higher up there is less mist, but the wind holds no less chill nor bite as it whips and whistles through crevices. A still figure breaks the grey and darkness with a splash of red, a hint of gold where lights from below bounce off hued feathers. The figure is tall; at least 9 feet if she were standing, but she is not stretched to her full height, but resting here. Talons clutch grey stone in a grip that is too often used for destruction, yet she looks at ease. Even amidst the buffeting winds that ruffle autumn feathers, in the inky darkness of the night, she is not tense, and does not stir save to breathe and sigh, and twist her head to watch the lands below.

Amidst the music of falling raindrops, the quiet hum of an elven voice harmonizes with the gentle staccato. Before long the source of the wordless song comes into view, a tall slender sinda garbed in grey and black. His tread is light upon the silvery path that spirals up the rocky slopes breaking through the canopy of his forest home. Thindisto's icy blue gaze sweeps over the hilltop as he ascends, a faint smile touching the lips from which his voice flows.

The smallest glance turns the head for a brief moment; as one thinking to have heard some noise, but dismissing it as being a noise only half-imagined. As the song grows and the figure comes into view, again the head turns, the sharp, meat-ripping beak clicks once quietly: the noise is lost in the wind.

Carefully she shifts her weight to watch with an idle curiosity the steps of the Sinda as he approaches the rocks upon which she perches. For a moment, it seems she will not speak, but soon warbles a note of cautious greeting.

Shifting his wintry gaze toward the quiet greeting, the cloaked elf silences his song and alters his course to bring him a respectful distance from the magnificent eagle. Offering a slight bow, Hir Thindisto does his best to imitate the speech of the visitor to Amon Thranduil, "<Eagle> ********* and welcome to ***. How may *** elves of Mirkwood ****** one *** ***** **** *** mighty winds of *** Misty *********?" The elf holds his cloak closed about him as rain continues to trickle down his angular features and run like a shallow stream over his grey clad shoulders.

Perhaps if this Great Eagle had lips, she would smile, but the smile can be seen only as the momentary alightment of a spark within amber and green eyes; a light which suggests faint and momentary amusement. "<Sindarin> It is well, and I thank-you for the greeting, though perhaps we would both find it better to speak in your tongue? I appreciate the effort, however." The words, despite the language, are strangely accented and distorted by beak and the low, gravelly tone of her voice. "<Sindarin> I am afraid I didn't catch some of your speech-- it was lost in the wind, I think." Perhaps an attempt at being polite, the truth is lost in a brief hesitation before the words.

"<Sindarin> It is indeed probably best we speak in the tongue of my people, as it is harder for me to speak yours without a beak than for you to speak mine without lips," Thindisto says with a mirthful tone. His right hand raises to brush his wet hair from his face as he continues, "<Sindarin> As I attempted to say before, how may the elves of Mirkwood be of assistance to one who rides upon the winds?"

A nod of her head follows his first words, another smile. "<Sindarin> Perhaps this is true, though maybe also I will help you with some things before I leave, or before you leave. It is always a nice thing to speak the tongues of others, and only recently that I came to learn the language of the Firstborn." A pause; one thoughtful, though the thoughts are perhaps even unrelated to the words spoken, or words yet unspoken. "<Sindarin> But I have not come to seek assistance, but long has it been since I came to rest here, and above there are storms, and I thought it best to rest a while and watch. But tell me, if you would-- what news, if there is any? I am a collecter; a seeker of news from many places.."

Nodding his head in agreement, the elven lord smiles at the great eagle perched before him. "<Sindarin> I have spoken with your kin many times, and have learned much of your language, though it is difficult for me to produce some of the sounds you are capable of." A short glance toward the cloud covered sky accompanies a pause in the Sinda's speech. When his gaze returns to his mighty visitor, it carries a hint of sadness that echoes in his voice, "<Sindarin> Though much has been quiet within the forest, there is some news which may be of interest to your folk and those you visit. Not many weeks ago a group of my kinsfolk happened upon a large encampment of foul creatures much further north than they have dared in some time. A battle was fought between the hunting party and the orcs and trolls in the forest. Several of our folk were lost and have passed into the West to await what will be. There have not been any further incursions, but it is only a matter of time before the shadow darkens and attempts to sweep into our lands yet again."

A nod and then a hiss from the beak at the meantion of creatures and battles. Something stirs Iavasuial from her statued form, wings unfold at her side. "That is nteresting, indeed. And concerning. Perhaps I shall gather some of my kin and we shall take flight to the north of these woods and watch there, and frighten off any threats that loom in the near future. I think it is best I take flight again, and speed for the Eyries, and shelter there. I thank-you for sharing conversation with me. Perhaps it is better that you return to warmth and dry inside as well. For now, farewell and safe winds until your Eyries recieve you!"

Autumn-hued wings are outstretched, then she launches from the rocks and into the air- kicking up water and mud as she goes. A call of departure now echoes her earlier greeting, and soon she is lost within the mist and darkness."

Thindisto watches the majestic creature disappear into the darkness above. His pale blue eyes turn from the sky and survey the rain drenched hilltop around him, his original intent once more in his forethoughts.