Morelen

There are many places in Middle Earth of varying degrees of interest, beauty, and lately to a lesser extent, evil. The Dead Marshes, in the opinions of most fell into the lowest rungs of the first two catagories and the highest possibilities of the final. Those people, it can be safely said, had never entered into its chill core. None had ever listened to the silky whispers of wind through the reeds that sounded to the unknowledgeable like the hints of Quenyan.

People rarely paid enough attention to realize that the Elven lifespan never ended in death and always, one way or the other, the spirit found its way to the beautiful lands of the Valar. Eventually it must be expected, and few spirits in myth and fact and ancient lore had ever become lost. Humans perhaps, remained to dwell in this icy place but, even in death the human spirit is weak, and not likely to cause harm.

The only certain spirits that lingered in the foul and desolate regions of swamp and mist were the spirits of the orcs, and those were nothing to worry about, really.

Standing at the edge of this great mist enshrouded swamp stood a fairly tall elven woman dressed all in black. Her knee high boots were black leather and tight around her thighs, her long black pants were tucked sercurely into the tops and held up in a thick leather belt. Her torso was covered in a loose black blouse with long sleeves that concealed a set of elegant elven chain mail. At her side hung a long, slender rapier and a empty black bag that seemed to sparke with slender silver threads.

As the elven woman with short, messy black hair finished tying her grey mare to a tree with a slender length of rope she stepped into the confines of the swamp and breathed deeply, inhaling the fumes of the swamp and stretching out.

Quietly she stepped into the wet marshes, listening to the squelch with a small smile on her pretty face as she strode into the coning darkness, enjoying the peace and solitude of the ancient graveyard.