Do not ask after my silence. Before sun and moon, an eternal nightfall of stars was reflected by Lake Cuivienen where I awoke. Imagine having neither parents nor past, but waking to life with other firstborn beside you. And what company it was! With gifts of body and mind, spirit and art, we felt at one with the natural order, and were blessed with an easy balance of labor and merriment. One morning, on a bright, orange-red dawn, Valaroma pierced earth and sky and Huan bellows echoed. Orome’s host and and hounds raced to our settlement. He brought word of Melkor’s minions-but despite confirmation of this horror, my heart raced with joy at Orome’s mention of the hunt and its implements. Then the first elf-bows and barbs were crafted, and those who desired took to the trail with Orome. Game we hunted only for need, but shadow we hunted for want of wrath and self-preservation. Perhaps I thrilled too much in the slaughter of darkness, for I became known as Daefaron, shadow-hunter. And so, much later, I declined the invitation westward for there is no foulness to track, trap, and end in the undying lands. Ages have come and gone since, I have learned much and forgotten more. One fact is certain: I will travel west only in death. Even there I would beg return to this Middle-earth to string the bow, sound the horn, and unleash the hounds of shadow’s doom.

My time soapy bubbles
My legs rusted ore
My smile blackened stubble
Washed from Pluto’s shore

My heart turbine air
My humors imbalanced fuel
My mental powers flare
Vaporize colliding fool

My eyes reflect white light
My ears drop soft intentions
My fingers type plight
Of paranoia machinations

My gait impotent sod
My will turned-off hose
My goals deserts trod
In spasmodic repose

My wish to you a thought
My life to yours avoid
My hope I have sought
An island now a void.

-mr_toad

“I did not always call Mirkwood my home–I was a gardener in Gondolin when it fell.  Its white walls once shown like mithril under moonlight; inside its grey towers the best of Noldorian lore and arms were preserved.  The field’s of Gondolin produced a bounty that could support a city thrice its size, and its gardens. Oh, its gardens of primrose and cedar and marble fountains, ivy that would sway as you hummed, stone-shod paths that soothed weary feet, and fiery blossoms of red and gold that I tended with all my heart.  Gondolin was my home and its people my family.  Carried to its halls as a babe, the only survivor of an ambushed refugee, I knew of none other..  Of Gondolin’s betrayal I cannot bear to think off, lest I succumb to despair.  But I will never forget how time stood still on those wind-swept hills as Morgoth’s host advanced and Gothmog himself paused at Ecthelion’s challenging cry.  Ah, noble Ecthelion, truly you showed supreme love to lay down your life for your friends!”

While I can barely roleplay to save my life, I do enjoy putting a little thought into where my character came from and what motivates him.  With a gardener’s background, the historian/farmer vocation fits nicely as an in-game crafting angle to Morf.  Hope to see you all around and thanks for reading this if you got this far!