In the Autumn, Thranduil (S. ‘Vigorous Spring’), our King, wears a crown of Red leaves and Berries, in the Spring a crown of Woodland Flowers. Our seat of power is Amon Lanc in the Eryn Lasgalen, the ‘Wood of Greenleaves’ in mortal tongue. We are the Elven Haven in the north of Taur-nu-Fuin, ‘Mirkwood’ to you, Child of the Sun.
The Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, the Elves of the Woodland Realm , are full of the hunter’s nature, and we drin the heady wines from Dorwinion, brought in barrels up the River Running. Our Lord collects gems and treasures, much like Thingol of old; maybe unusual amongst Elves now, but we celebrate our lives to the full! We hunt, we drink, we celebrate in the woods, and our ways are long sung by poets and minstrels. Trade is good for us, and we even trade with Erebor as well as our long-term friends in Dale.
We hunt Orcs in our woods, our marchwardens sly, precise and ghostly – they smell the fear of the bow –legged Yrch that pollute our twilight arbour. They do not belong here, and we remember the Dagorlad where many died, including Thranduil’s father Oropher, come from Lindon to join with we Nandorin - with nobility and twinkling starlight in their eyes - we could not compare to that, simple Silvan-folk. With his kingship we have prospered, and we a seat on the White Council, as he is wise and yet warlike. He is fey in nature, oft capricious, but a great leader. We are under assault as it, but this seems just day to day living after so many seasons have passed us by.
It was weakness that allowed the shadow to move into Dol Guldur, and do not understand Saruman’s hesitation in cleansing the south of the Necromancer. We have fought a war with Naugrim before, but there is peace between us since Dain ascended. We regret our actions towards Thorin’s Erebor, but rejoice in the killing of Bolg before the gates of Erebor. Between that, the Battle of Five Armies, and the purging of Dol Guldur, we have managed to stem the tide of evil, but know we will face again it. Sooner than we would wish, but our glory is undiminished; Our warriors may not be heavily armed, but is foolish to fight us the forest! Our archers bring many of the orcs, and worse, before they have a chance to even close with us. Like the Elves of elder Nargothrond, we use stealth and hide in the forests we were born to, our bow-strings hum and our blades flicker like tongues of light – the dead of the foe we leave in piles amongst stone and bough are a saddening monument to this.
Below the eaves of the Eryn (Las)galen lies the Court of our King, Thranduil, where he reigns upon a seat carved of oak, amongst pillars of living rock that, some say, echo of mere memories of Menegroth, underground Halls of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath in the First Age. Upon his brow are crowns of the season, and he is true our race, even when he was Sindar, before joining the Nandor of Greenwood to be their King. He has earned much love for becoming Silvan and giving up his rights to travel to Valinor for now, and the near future.
We are prepared for war, Lord, but face it without eager thoughts, as it will hurt the Olvar of this harsh place. No orc shall walk free in the Eryn Galen, our home, our right, ours to defend to the death. Should we leave the Dwarves of Erebor, the bitter, dour Naugrim, and the Men of Dale, long our friends, to their own defence? Should abandon the land of Dorwionion to watch it’s vineyards burn, and concentrate on the possible unififcation of our forces with those of Celeborn and Galdriel, and face Dol Guldur, or even turn to the Ered Mithrim, the Grey Mountains, to force back the Orcs and Goblin-folk of the Misty Mountains?
Our allies seem few, and far away, beset by their own concerns, and our position unenviable, but we shall not abandon our fate, our hope and strike like vengeful shadows to lure and annihilate our foes for good. To see the lands of Mirkwood unite unite once...is that an impossible dream, after all these years; yes, that is a good thought, My Lord, and a slim possibility thus far. A possibility none-the-less.
The Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, the Elves of the Woodland Realm , are full of the hunter’s nature, and we drin the heady wines from Dorwinion, brought in barrels up the River Running. Our Lord collects gems and treasures, much like Thingol of old; maybe unusual amongst Elves now, but we celebrate our lives to the full! We hunt, we drink, we celebrate in the woods, and our ways are long sung by poets and minstrels. Trade is good for us, and we even trade with Erebor as well as our long-term friends in Dale.
We hunt Orcs in our woods, our marchwardens sly, precise and ghostly – they smell the fear of the bow –legged Yrch that pollute our twilight arbour. They do not belong here, and we remember the Dagorlad where many died, including Thranduil’s father Oropher, come from Lindon to join with we Nandorin - with nobility and twinkling starlight in their eyes - we could not compare to that, simple Silvan-folk. With his kingship we have prospered, and we a seat on the White Council, as he is wise and yet warlike. He is fey in nature, oft capricious, but a great leader. We are under assault as it, but this seems just day to day living after so many seasons have passed us by.
It was weakness that allowed the shadow to move into Dol Guldur, and do not understand Saruman’s hesitation in cleansing the south of the Necromancer. We have fought a war with Naugrim before, but there is peace between us since Dain ascended. We regret our actions towards Thorin’s Erebor, but rejoice in the killing of Bolg before the gates of Erebor. Between that, the Battle of Five Armies, and the purging of Dol Guldur, we have managed to stem the tide of evil, but know we will face again it. Sooner than we would wish, but our glory is undiminished; Our warriors may not be heavily armed, but is foolish to fight us the forest! Our archers bring many of the orcs, and worse, before they have a chance to even close with us. Like the Elves of elder Nargothrond, we use stealth and hide in the forests we were born to, our bow-strings hum and our blades flicker like tongues of light – the dead of the foe we leave in piles amongst stone and bough are a saddening monument to this.
Below the eaves of the Eryn (Las)galen lies the Court of our King, Thranduil, where he reigns upon a seat carved of oak, amongst pillars of living rock that, some say, echo of mere memories of Menegroth, underground Halls of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath in the First Age. Upon his brow are crowns of the season, and he is true our race, even when he was Sindar, before joining the Nandor of Greenwood to be their King. He has earned much love for becoming Silvan and giving up his rights to travel to Valinor for now, and the near future.
We are prepared for war, Lord, but face it without eager thoughts, as it will hurt the Olvar of this harsh place. No orc shall walk free in the Eryn Galen, our home, our right, ours to defend to the death. Should we leave the Dwarves of Erebor, the bitter, dour Naugrim, and the Men of Dale, long our friends, to their own defence? Should abandon the land of Dorwionion to watch it’s vineyards burn, and concentrate on the possible unififcation of our forces with those of Celeborn and Galdriel, and face Dol Guldur, or even turn to the Ered Mithrim, the Grey Mountains, to force back the Orcs and Goblin-folk of the Misty Mountains?
Our allies seem few, and far away, beset by their own concerns, and our position unenviable, but we shall not abandon our fate, our hope and strike like vengeful shadows to lure and annihilate our foes for good. To see the lands of Mirkwood unite unite once...is that an impossible dream, after all these years; yes, that is a good thought, My Lord, and a slim possibility thus far. A possibility none-the-less.