The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Abandoned by the rest of the world, and likewise abandoning it, Adorain finally makes it full circle and returns to her point of origin: Good Ole Myrkenwood. Years have passed since her first spring tending the little garden behind the 'Dagger, where healing blossoms bloomed and young love took shape in the form of a black-caped renegade named Raven. Such sentiments now long gone, dust cast windward, and swept away never to be contained in time's cruel bottle. She likes being free of such attachments now, nobody to wonder or worry for, nobody to tell where you're going or why... She just goes, wherever she pleases.
And her feet, clad in white buckskin, meld each gentle footstep into the snow-littered road. She walks alone, no mount to bear her weary soul, no carriage to carry her aloft to eager destinations. A woman clad in whitecloak, a lonesome Lady. Her long, artful hands are folded beneath the cloth; baggy hood drawn low to shade her eyes... Only the pale, pointed nose and the bud of cherry lips, a sharp, elegant chin, and the slender white neck where a silver clasp buckles between the perfect shadows of her clavicles. Here, a tendril of shimmering dark chocolate hair escapes all this pristine bondage, fighting against the wind.
The road has been long, and wearisome, but she has been happy to travel it... Every footstep taking her farther and farther away, or so she lies to herself. The past follows one like a ball and chain, a heavy weight dragged along no matter how high your spirit may fly for the moment. At this moment, she is in a melancholy state of happiness - however that is. And she treads the well-worn path, returning to something with a semblance of home... Though she may never again know what home is, at least here is a warm bed and a roof over your head... The Broken Dagger.

Another day dawns, and this lonesome elf has finally ceased her perambulations about the wood and lake, daring to find solace at the old inn & tavern. Nearing the front doors, she gets a glance at the little untended shrubberies surrounding the outer walls... A sign that at least something missed her all this time. She half-smiles... feeling half-guilty for having abandoned this project, minute as it may be. The sharp chill of the breeze passing urges her out of reverie, and into the warm indoors. The door closes noisily behind her, and she strips off the white hood and gloves.
"It looks just the same." She notes, happily, mumbling to herself. Bright golden eyes scan the innards for a glimpse of the old bartender. Surely he would still be about - the man was like a permanent fixture to the Dagger. Without the hood on, her long, lustrous hair tumbles free, reaching her waist... so many rivers of dark chocolate ending in loose curls. And her ears are a sight to behold; incarnadine seashells tapering off into lengthy points, poking blatantly out from between her hair. To the outward eye, she is undoubtedly elven, and yet certainly some rare and unusual foreign brand, no less.
"Pritchard?" Goddess bless the infallible memory of elvenkind! A smile of triumph abrubtly sweeps across her small features. The old man doesn't seem to recognise her, but that is most likely due to the thousands who have crossed his threshold since she was last here. "I would like to rent a room, please." She patiently awaits while he assigns a room to her, and delivers the key.
"Thank you Pritchard, I'll take a cup of tea as well." One of her brilliant smiles graces the end of the conversation, as she collects the key from the barman's pudgy grip. Instead of rushing upstairs right away, she simply tucks the key into a pocket of her dress, and settles on a barstool.
Her fingers are cold from spending the night out of doors, but she soon remedies this by wrapping them lovingly about the steaming ceramic mug. It is not, perhaps, the finest tea leaves hand-picked from the mountains of Har-El, but it is a hot cup of tea and she has been without one for far too long... So, as she draws the mug up to her nostrils and lips, it is with a great sigh of contentment that she enjoys the first sip. Ah, sweet familiarity.