The Halls Of Elven Valor

Experience elven hospitality,

And explore the halls of history in tonight's fantasy bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I will be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

I'm here to help you fall asleep,

So at any time,

Feel free to let go of this story.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a brief visualization exercise for rest.

In tonight's story,

You are an elf warrior who's been summoned to the elven stronghold of Lindelore.

Approaching the hidden city for the first time,

You are moved by its beauty and the legacy of your people.

You explore the halls and gardens of the city,

Paying respect to great elven leaders.

You join a twilight council,

And finally retire to your chambers for rest.

Such was the virtue of the land of Rivendell,

That soon all fear and anxiety was lifted from their minds.

The future,

Good or ill,

Was not forgotten,

But ceased to have any power over the present.

Health and hope grew strong in them,

And they were content with each good day as it came,

Taking pleasure in every meal and in every word and song.

J.

R.

R.

Tolkien,

The Fellowship of the Ring Dead leaves whipped on a wintry wind and a chill between the trees.

It's three days' ride from the forested regions of the north,

Where you reside among the wood elves,

To your destination.

You journey by the movement of the stars and the markers of the moon rather than by contours on a map.

You listen to the wind,

The subtle changes in her song and whispers,

And to the rocks and trees.

Only by keenly aligning with nature's subtlest clues can you come to the place you seek,

For it is hidden to the untrained eye,

Deep in the hills and valleys of the southern country.

You ride for Lindalore,

The valley stronghold of the elven High King,

A place to which every elf longs to make a pilgrimage and which few elves ever see.

Its location is a guarded secret,

And its borders carefully monitored.

Such treasures and secrets lie within the halls of Lindalore,

That it must be so.

When a message came from the valley to your king,

Leader of the wood elves,

He sent for you post-haste.

At a private audience with the king and his closest counsellors,

He learned the contents of the message.

Somehow,

Though it was verbose and detailed,

He found that it said very little at all.

The words danced round some matter of great import,

A matter that perhaps affected every soul in the realm.

And yet,

Those words neglected to land on what precisely this matter was,

A trick of the high elven tongue,

Your king insisted.

The obfuscation of meaning in urgency.

The message's sole purpose soon became clear.

The High King sought a delegate from the Sylvan forests,

Someone to represent the interests of the wood elves at a council concerning this great and urgent matter.

The message gave the impression that many others would sit at such a table,

Dwarves,

Men,

Wizards,

And other free peoples of the realm.

That's when the king of the wood elves made his intention clear.

You would be that delegate to the council in Lindalore.

At first,

You were in disbelief.

What had you done to earn such an honor among all your clan,

And why should you,

By all accounts,

A taciturn elf,

Be chosen to speak at a council before highborn delegates?

But the king insisted that you were his only choice.

A high-ranked captain in the Sylvan army and devoted supporter of the crown,

Your experience beyond the borders of the forest might be minimal,

But your skills and service were undeniable at the king's behest.

You should ride for Lindalore at first light,

And so you did.

You saddled up your capable mare and departed just as the sun's first rays splashed Oriet over the horizon.

Neither your king nor his seneschals could tell you the way,

Only guided you to trust your instincts and listen to the earth.

All elves,

Whether forest-born or of high ancestry,

Can call upon the gifts of nature speaking.

One only needs to open their senses to find nature's messages in her wind and water.

Three days hence,

The wind has changed her tune.

No more do you hear the echoes of empty lands upon her breath.

She blows northerly with elven songs,

Whispers in the high elven tongue.

The road to Lindalore is illuminated on the breeze.

It's close now,

In a few short hours.

As early afternoon creeps across the moorlands,

You breach an invisible threshold.

A shiver passes over you,

Faint but unmistakable,

And a sense of both wonder and familiarity follows.

Then you hear the river in the distance,

Beyond the rocky shelves that guard a treasure none can hoard.

The river,

Gwathier,

Sings as purely as the wind,

But clearer still.

And as you pass through the rocky gorge,

You see her sparkling waters first,

Like molten silver under the noonday sun,

And then the covered bridge.

As your eyes drift slowly upward,

You follow the line of a thunderous waterfall,

Your sight moving against its downward motion,

And then,

Your eyes traveling upward still,

The elven city of Lindalore materializes.

The diaphanous clouds of spray coming off the waterfall float suspended in the air around the city,

Making it appear to emerge from a dreamlike mist at the sight.

Your heart harmonizes with the natural music of the place,

Humming on the strings of light that play upon the splashing water,

Delicate rainbows on the spray,

Nestled in the valley between monumental cliffs and foothills,

Hanging over the dancing river.

The city appears small,

Elusive,

And fragile,

But this is the nature of many elven things,

That they are more than they appear.

You hesitate before instructing your horse to ride on,

More than anything you want to hold the image of your approach to the glittering Lindalore before your eyes forever.

The city dappled in light and shadow,

Her distant archways and gabled rooftops,

Columned bridges and elegant gazebos,

So few of your kind will ever see this spectacle,

And what a pity that is.

But you must ride forth,

And shake the daze of the initial approach,

To find your place at the table of the elven high king.

You're greeted at the mouth of the bridge by the captain of the city guard.

He announces himself as such,

Though he bears no arm or armor.

You dismount your horse and walk with her lead in your hand over the bridge.

You can feel droplets of mist from the waterfall against your cheek.

Somehow the winter's chill does not seem to reach the valley.

Only a golden warmth is present here,

And mingling must be year-round by some magic,

So the cool water feels pleasant on your skin.

The captain instructs his attendant to take your mare to the stables to be fed and groomed.

You've noticed that the captain's own steed,

A pure white stallion,

Seems to glow from within,

Making your grey mare seem all the duller by comparison.

Perhaps she'll emerge after a day or two feasting on the food of Lindelore with such a shine.

There are rooms made up for you in the house of the king,

Where you might rest now if you like,

Or freshen up from the long journey.

You're shown to the king's house,

Past a flowery courtyard and sunny pavilion,

Even from the outside.

You can see that it's a sprawling complex of halls and chambers,

With a central atrium and a spiraling array of corridors to other spaces.

Balconies and verandas are visible on all sides overlooking the valley.

The exterior walls and eaves are adorned with elegant yet minimal tracery,

Lending a curve to the sharpest of angles and straightest of lines,

An interplay of masculine and feminine features.

Once within the oaken doors,

The major domo greets you and relieves the captain.

Your eyes feast upon the decorative timber columns,

Carved by the deftest of hands.

Daylight spills amply through the tall,

Narrow windows,

Each with pointed arches,

And decorative flourishes.

The halls are at once expansive and effortlessly welcoming,

Cozy even,

In your dreams and musings on Lindelore.

You imagined a fiercely guarded citadel,

Thick stone walls,

Ramparts,

Artillery.

You never imagined it would be so home-like,

Magnificent,

Palatial,

Yes,

But more than anything marked by comfort and ease.

Your chambers are in the west wing on the ground floor.

The major domo leaves you alone there and bids you come to him for anything you should desire.

The council is set to gather at dusk,

But until then,

You are free to remain in your rooms or explore the grounds at your will.

Once he departs,

You release an audible sigh,

A musical exhalation on which all the wonder and delight of the last hour escapes.

Your rooms are positively light-filled at this afternoon hour.

Glowing gold,

You remove the silver cloak from about your shoulders and stretch your arms to release some of the tension of the long ride.

On a small round table sits a bronze pitcher and a crystal goblet next to a polished platter of cakes,

Breads,

Fruit,

And cheese.

You are famished from the journey.

You pour water from the pitcher and bring the goblet to your lips.

It tastes purer and colder than any water you've ever tasted,

Seeming to restore your strength.

With each sip,

The food is sweet and nourishing,

A delight for the senses.

With needs met,

You wander the rest of this space.

There's a large,

Luxurious bed made up with white silk sheets.

The headboard is the same decorative timber carved in interlocking patterns.

It's oh so inviting,

But the itch of curiosity keeps you from retiring for a nap.

At this very moment,

There's a washroom off the bedchamber with an oversized marble tub and a basin of clear water on a pedestal.

You take a moment to wash your hands and face in the water.

Your pores drink of it like a healing salve,

And you feel refreshed and rejuvenated.

You step now out onto the balcony.

It's truly wondrous,

Elven magic,

You think,

That keeps this haven warm and sunlit even in the winter months.

You savor the kiss of sunlight on your face.

A deep inhale brings in the scent of crisp evergreen and delicate rose,

And the view,

Again,

Just as you yearned to hold that first impression of Lindelore forever.

You now ache to hold this one.

You can see,

You can see,

From your private veranda,

The complex of the king's house reaching out across the cliff like a cat stretching after a long sleep.

The whole valley trembles with the thundering sound of the falls and seems bathed in rainbows splashing off the spray.

From here,

You can see the network of pathways that lead on many levels from gardens to gazebos into quiet healing spaces and celebratory halls.

This place is fit for feasting and revelry,

You can plainly see,

But also for meditation,

Scholarly pursuits,

And creative exploration.

A half-smile springs to your lips as your gaze falls on a sunken colonnade and a little grassy courtyard.

A ways below your balcony,

There's someone sitting on the balustrade,

A little white-haired fellow,

Dressed in linens and smoking a pipe.

Open beside him is a leather-bound diary of some sort,

And in between puffs on his pipe,

You can see him pick up a quill and scribble something upon the pages.

You think,

With a twinge of amusement,

That this must be the smallest person you've ever seen.

Puffs of smoke travel upward in spirals,

Dissipating before they reach your balcony.

His bare feet,

You realize,

Are covered in a layer of downy hair,

Pufflings.

Here in Lindelore,

You think,

This shall be a curious council indeed.

Your desire for rest surrenders to the mounting curiosity you have about the city,

So before long,

You leave your chambers to explore the halls of the Elven King's house.

The manor is quiet,

But not unoccupied.

You discover others at every turn.

In a large,

Central chamber,

A long table is set for a feast,

And a mountainous fire burns in the hearth.

Before the fire sits a band of musicians,

One of whom is lazily strumming a lute,

Another encants half-heartedly,

Apparently composing a song in the moment.

You watch quietly from the doorway,

With interest,

As he gropes for the best phrasing.

It's a song,

You decipher,

About the adventures of a forest god when the realm was young.

How he raised up the trees of the ancient forest and brought them to life with only his singing voice.

It's a lovely,

Lilting melody.

You hope to hear the finished song during your stay,

If the singer ever finds his words.

As you wander through the rest of the halls on the ground floor,

You see the Majordomo again,

This time escorting a bushy-bearded dwarf in monk's robes to his chambers.

The dwarf nods solemnly as he passes you.

An ancient grudge has divided elves and dwarves from time out of mind,

But this one clearly bears you no ill will,

And neither do you.

Despite the clerical garments,

You catch the flash of a mighty axe slung on his back.

A warrior monk,

It seems.

There's a pair of heavy,

Enormously tall doors at the end of the next passage.

You push one open with a low groan to reveal within a vast and cavernous hall of records,

Books upon books,

Ledgers upon ledgers,

And scrolls upon scrolls.

So many,

Piled so high upon shelves and tables,

That it's simply dizzying to look upon.

Grey stone floors and balustrades,

You're met on impression with the musky scent of paper and ink aged leather,

And a warm,

Sweet fragrance you can't identify,

And the hall is lit by shafts of sunlight that stream in through the pointed windows.

Blessing with gold,

The silver grey chamber,

A lone soul you spy from the doorway.

A slender,

Dark-haired elf with furrowed brow and fine silk robes,

A lore master,

You'd wager,

In the service of the king.

He's deep in thought or study,

At the table in the center of the hall,

He does not look up or take notice of you.

You decide to leave him to his scholarly pursuits,

Whoever he is.

You shut the door as gingerly as you can,

Wincing as it groans again,

And closes with an echoing thud.

Enticed now by the sound of bird song,

You wind through the endless corridors toward a breezy central courtyard,

Passing through a decorative arch.

You emerge to see a romantic garden,

Flanked on all sides by a marble arcade.

At the garden's center is a splashing marble fountain,

Surrounded by pale pink roses and peonies.

Oh,

But the perfume of this garden is overwhelmingly herbal,

And it's only moments before you discover the rose of healing herbs,

King's foil,

And moongrass,

From the presence of such botanicals.

You deduce that this must be a place of healing,

Where the ailing go to relieve their suffering,

Or where the heartsick go to find joy in the splash of water and beauty of the flowers.

Indeed,

After only a short stroll through the garden,

Your heart feels lighter than before,

And your weary bones feel both relaxed and energized.

Tiny yellow birds flit playfully in and out of the flower bushes.

The fountain trips like laughter against the low rumble of the falls.

Though you've little desire to leave such a peaceful,

Light-hearted place,

Still your eyes wander,

And curious heart tugs at you.

On the far side of the courtyard,

There's another arched doorway.

From beyond the threshold flickers the light of a torch,

Or lantern,

Amber and inconstant.

You move toward it as though through water.

Upon reaching the archway,

You see that immediately beyond it are steps leading downward.

You peer around the edge of the arch to see that torches indeed line the stone stairwell.

Curiosity compels you on,

Down the steps,

Toward whatever awaits below.

Your feet fall gently,

But the steps echo,

Making your presence seem larger than yourself.

Down one,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Five steps,

Spiraling deep into the earth,

Your body falls into a rhythm,

Stepping down,

Turning slightly for the spiral,

Stepping down.

So it's an adjustment when your feet fall on solid ground.

You've arrived in an underground chamber,

Dimly lit,

So that it's difficult to see how large it is,

Or make out much detail far beyond you.

The chamber,

Rather,

Reveals itself in pieces as you move through it.

By the curved walls and angled torches,

You discover that the cellar is round.

The torchlight falls mainly on stone,

Though here and there,

A flicker of bronze,

And here and there,

Illuminated at intervals,

Are statues,

Figures with elongated features,

Slender hands,

And stone garments that appear to ripple and fold like real fabric.

Each is adorned with carved jewels,

Circlets,

Or crowns.

Many carry elegant weapons,

Saber,

Staff,

Or bow.

How you should like to wield such a sword,

Or spear,

Crafted with care by the dwarven smiths in their mountain halls.

You care little for ancient grudges,

When the work is of such exquisite quality.

You pause,

Longer,

Before a dynamic statue of an elf,

Whose stone clothing is embellished with leafy patterns.

The sense of movement in the likeness is breathtaking.

In one hand is a delicate bow,

Gripped tightly.

The other hand pulls back and downward on its string.

You can almost see the strain in her muscles.

She leans backward in space,

Knees softly bent with eyes to the sky.

Her hair,

Long and braided,

Whips round her shoulders,

And her cloak flaps behind,

A moment frozen in time.

The expression on her face captivates you,

Fierce,

Determined,

And vulnerable.

There's a clasp at the neck of her cloak in the shape of a crescent moon,

A sharp intake of breath.

As you realize who the statue depicts,

The great elven huntress Artemisia.

She was a revered hero of ages past,

And her stories are still told among the wood elves to this day,

Long before you were born.

She sailed over the great sea with others of her age,

Toward the shining lands of the West.

It's a fate to which all elves aspire.

Gifted with immortality,

One relishes the promise of peace and rest.

Someday you hope to sail there too,

And join your kin in tranquility and restoration.

But not yet,

You've so much to do in your time.

Each of these stone statues,

Richly adorned,

Gracefully armed,

Represents,

You realize,

One of the great heroes,

Warriors,

Knights,

Kings,

Or queens of the elven past.

In many of their faces,

You see echoes of your own features,

But more importantly,

Your own determination to do something worthwhile,

To contribute meaningfully to the good of the elves,

And indeed the entire realm.

Perhaps this is why you were chosen to represent your people at this elusive council.

Because your desire shows through to those around you,

They see your eagerness to reach beyond your borders,

In the service of good.

Dwarf,

Halfling,

Elf,

And man,

These are all your people.

You aim to serve them all in kind.

Would that someday you might find your own face and features,

Immortalized in this hall of valor.

You might stand among the heroes of all the ages.

It's an ambitious thought,

Perhaps too ambitious for one of ordinary birth,

And simple means.

But like a torch flame,

It burns within you,

Lighting up the possibilities of the future.

All this time,

As you've observed the fine details of the statues,

You've thought yourself alone in the underground chamber.

But now,

As you encircle the hall,

You discover that there is another present.

She stands so still.

You might have thought her a statue as well,

Were it not for the color high in her cheeks.

You stop when you see her,

Hoping not to startle her with your presence.

But of course,

Your footsteps have echoed since you entered the hall.

She's aware of you,

Even if she hasn't acknowledged you yet.

She's clad in ranger's attire,

Worn leather and muslin.

But there's a glitter of silver or something round her neck,

Half tucked under her collar but visible nonetheless.

She gazes at another of the stone figures,

This one larger and more imposing than the rest.

You're somewhat confused when you behold the statue yourself,

For no hallmarks of elven physiology are present,

No pointed ears or graceful features.

Instead,

This figure,

Crowned and bedecked in stone regalia,

A king it seems,

As the hearty,

Muscular features typical of the race of man.

What king of men holds vigil in an elven sanctum,

You wonder.

In the statue's mighty grip is a stone sword,

The blade more than half the length of his large body.

What you can see of the handle is engraved with ancient symbols.

It's a marvel,

This sword.

Turning your gaze again to the watching woman,

You see a glitter of moisture in her eyes.

Not tears per se,

But something fierce and wild.

Desire,

Desperation,

Defeat.

It seems you hold this stillness for a lifetime.

You watching the woman,

The woman beholding the king,

The sword,

The still and silent statues watching over all,

The torchlight,

Dancing,

Shifting shadows playing on the walls,

And then,

Slowly,

Her shoulders loosen and her gaze lowers.

She turns to you and beholds you,

And gently bows her head.

You do the same in respect,

Though somehow you feel the gesture is insufficient.

Something about this woman,

Ranger's garments notwithstanding,

Commands great deference.

Her face alone inspires loyalty.

Her energy is the same as that emitted by your king,

The leader of the wood elves,

Confidence and care.

Silently,

With acknowledgement,

She leaves the chamber,

And you are alone among the statues.

You stay a while longer,

Exploring with your eyes the other figures.

You linger on the visage of the king of men,

His awesome sword,

And then,

At last,

You leave.

You blink against the soft,

Late afternoon sunlight.

After spending so much time in the dark underground hall,

You decide to return to your chambers to refresh yourself.

In the final hour before the council's gathering,

You greet the major domo on the way,

And he offers to have hot water prepared for a bath.

You accept graciously,

And a hot bath is truly a welcome luxury.

The water,

Lightly scented with oils,

Washes away the long journey and relaxes your muscles.

There's something about the water,

Brought,

You assume,

From the river or the falls,

And heated to perfection.

Your skin feels clearer,

Brighter,

Younger for soaking in it.

After washing,

You dress yourself in robes provided for you.

They are almost identical to your usual garments,

But they're made with a fine elven silk,

And embroidered with silver-white thread that shines like gossamer.

The cloth is buttery soft on your skin.

Soon,

A steward comes to collect you.

The king is hosting supper in the great hall.

The steward leads you to the same enormous chamber where you watch the musicians practicing before the fire.

The hearth still rages,

And the musicians are there,

Now set up and playing soft music.

As the guests enter,

You take your seat and observe the others joining you.

There's the dwarven monk you saw on his entry,

The ranger from the cellar.

Both have changed,

Like you,

Into elven silk garments.

Beside her is the halfling you observed from the balcony,

White-haired and smiling,

And with him are two other younger halflings.

Nerves show through their contented expressions.

This company keeps getting stranger,

You think.

In comes a tall,

Bearded fellow in gray silks,

A wizard,

You realize with some astonishment.

You've met one once before,

A charmingly mad wizard who lives in your same sylvan forest,

But this one is nothing like him,

Stately and tall with wise,

Lucid eyes that crinkle at the corners,

Smiling eyes.

Lastly,

After the guests are brought in,

The major domo announces the arrival of the king.

You and the others at the table stand for his entrance.

When he comes into view,

However,

You realize that it's the same lore master you observed poring over scrolls in the archives this day,

And you had thought him an ordinary elf,

A scholar king.

Well,

You suppose you've already seen a regal ranger,

An adventurous halfling,

And a dwarven warrior monk today.

How could anything else surprise you?

The king takes his seat at the head of the table,

The fire roaring behind him.

As you sup,

The musicians play,

Just as you'd hoped.

They've finished the song they were working on all day,

And you listen keenly to the story it tells.

An ancient forest spirit,

Powerful as a god,

Who sings the trees,

Rocks,

And mountains into existence,

Then retires within the woods,

To a life of solitude and peace,

Forsaking his limitless power.

For the sake of happiness,

It's a beautiful,

Mournful song.

After supper,

The king invites you all out onto the veranda.

Twilight,

Purple and glistening against the stone arcade,

Overgrown with tangled vines.

Behind you,

The falls thunder.

Secrets will be shared here this night.

The falls discourage eavesdropping.

You sit in a circle,

On chairs carved of light timber.

Elves beside dwarves,

Men beside halflings,

Kings beside gardeners.

None of these distinctions matter here.

Now,

In this moment,

You are one people,

Gathered to ponder a difficult matter.

The king speaks.

You can hear the scholarly note.

In his tender voice,

He beseeches you to hearken to his tale.

For every detail of what he is about to tell you is significant.

And then,

He begins his story.

He's older than he looks,

And he was here at the dawn of the world,

When the realm was young and the great forests and mountain ranges were sung into existence.

By primordial deities.

As he speaks,

Your gaze drifts to the falls,

Beyond the arches,

There in the falling water.

You think you can see vague shapes and images coming to the surface.

It's strange.

But as you concentrate on the king's story,

The water seems to twist and bend,

And bend,

To take the shape of his words.

When the king describes the first elves who walked in the world,

You can see those elves.

Water formed in the falls.

When he talks of the great wars of the ages,

You can see watery arrows and swords splash out of the falls and back into the water.

Is it just your mind searching for patterns in the chaos of the tumbling liquid?

Or is something magical at work?

You steal a glance at the wizard across the circle.

He's noticed you,

Watching the shape-shifting falls.

His eyes twinkle with something like mischief.

On,

The story stretches through the ages and the coming of man.

The wars that tore apart the realm,

The rise and fall of the enemy.

Some of this story you know by heart,

From elven records,

But most of it is new.

And as the speaker was witness to it all,

It rings with truth and emotion.

He tells of a king of men,

Beloved by all,

Who united the free folk of the realm against the enemy.

Of that king's line,

Now in exile,

Awaiting the return of its heir to unite all once more.

He looked to the ranger,

Searching her stoic face for answers.

Then,

At the invitation of the king,

And with the encouragement of the elder halfling,

The youngest looking little one stands,

And approaches a stone pedestal at the center of the circle.

He pulls something from his pocket,

Turns it over in his hands,

Hesitates,

Then places it upon the pedestal.

A tiny,

Sparkling gemstone,

Blood red,

The size of a pebble,

Eyes flashing to the faces round the circle.

You see realization dawn upon the rangers and the dwarfs.

The wizard's kind eyes are steely.

He knows this thing already.

So does the king.

And in a moment,

So do you.

You feel a chill,

Though you know not whether it comes from a sudden breeze,

Or from within a jewel,

A relic of terrible power,

In the hands of a halfling who looks woefully unprepared.

For the responsibilities of such a burden,

Your heart softens for him,

And for the kind-faced fellow who sits with him,

Such loyalty and friendship you sense between them.

This gem,

So small,

So delicate,

Is what brings together this council today.

In the hands of the enemy it could wield enormous,

Dark power.

You,

The representatives of the realm's free peoples,

Must decide what is to be done with it.

There's a charge in the air,

A tension or a tautness between you and all within the circle.

A great weight has been placed upon your shoulders.

The blood red gemstone twinkles from its pedestal.

Dark and rough cut,

You can see the dwarf's eyes sparkle behind his stern gaze.

The wizard looks weary,

The halflings sigh.

The ranger's expression is indecipherable,

But strong.

Great forces have brought you together.

The king's story of the creation of the world,

Its cycles of peace and conflict,

The names of its greatest players,

Is ongoing.

You are the next players to enter the story.

You will create its next chapter by what you say and do at this council.

But it is not for tonight for you to solve this matter.

As urgent as it is,

You are all owed rest and time to ponder,

Think.

The king bids you on the story I've told this night.

Think of the many actions and inactions that moved the story forward,

Bringing us all to this circle,

Bringing this relic before us.

You have the power to decide its fate and the fate of the entire realm.

So,

Rest well and rise early tomorrow to begin your great work.

The council leaves you with much to muse on.

Only a day ago,

You were preparing to sleep in your own home in the sylvan forest,

Unencumbered by such thoughts.

You feel only a small twinge of wistfulness for that ignorance,

But more so,

The torch flame of your determination burns,

Low and constant.

At last,

Here is your chance to do something meaningful,

Something bigger than yourself,

Bigger than the elves,

To make an impact on all the free peoples.

On all the realm,

Will you answer this call,

Side by side with a dwarf,

Halflings and men,

Wizards and kings.

There's a warm breeze from the open balcony doors.

When you retire to your rooms,

It brings the scent of sweet jasmine on its breath.

You long for sleep,

But the quiet night calls to you and you step out on the balcony for just a moment,

Looking out over Lindelore.

You're even more captivated by its twilight beauty than its sun-bathed essence.

Moonbeams grace the gardens and courtyards.

The bridges and gazebos glow.

There's little movement outside the king's house,

Save for the sway of trees and grasses in the breeze.

But there's someone,

A ranger it appears,

Stepping quietly down a garden path,

As if she's off to some secret rendezvous.

You are endlessly curious about the other council members,

But perhaps most curious about her.

You sense there's much more to her than meets the eye.

At last,

You wander back inside,

Leaving the balcony doors open a crack to allow the pleasant,

Perfumed air into your chamber.

The bed looks as inviting as ever,

And as you crawl in,

You feel its softness embrace your exhausted body.

You put all thoughts of the gemstone out of your mind.

There is much to decide tomorrow,

But for now,

All you need is rest.

As you quiet your mind,

Your senses awaken.

Out over the balcony,

You can hear the wind's hollow song in the laments of the rocks and mountains.

The sweet poetry of the flowers and herbs in the gardens behind it all.

The low thunder of the falls.

The blanket of sound that encircles you.

You let your eyes fall closed and surrender to the comforting music of nature.

Behind your eyes swim the stone faces of elven huntresses.

Warriors,

Queens and kings,

They are singing too.

Out of the past,

Emboldening your spirit,

Strengthening you,

And preparing you for the days to come.

As you wind down tonight,

You embrace a sense of ease in both your body and your mind.

Let the muscles relax from head to toe,

Especially searching for and releasing tension from places like the forehead,

The jaw,

The shoulders,

And the hips.

Easy breath,

Easy mind,

Easy heart.

If it's helpful,

I invite you to imagine a place of ease.

A place where your needs are met and you feel taken care of.

It could be a real place,

Maybe it's your home,

Or the home of a loved one.

A place you've stayed before,

Even some place in nature where you feel cared for.

Or it might be an imaginary place too.

Just somewhere where things feel easy.

What are the sensations you associate with this place?

The smells,

The sights,

The textures,

The taste,

And the sounds.

What is satisfying about this place?

How does it feel to be taken care of?

To have your needs met?

Your cup filled?

Just sit in this place and breathe for a while.

Feel supported and taken care of.

How much more energized are we?

How much more contented and capable are we?

When our own needs are met,

Don't forget that.

When it comes time to give of yourself,

Easy breath,

Easy mind,

Easy heart.

When you're ready,

Let that visualization go and allow yourself to sink into the sound of the waterfall,

Rumbling low at a distance,

A current,

Underneath all the other noise of the day,

The distractions of everyday life,

A low constant tone,

Drowning out the unnecessary,

And enveloping the senses.

You can visualize the waterfall too,

The way it tumbles and splashes and falls,

Making rainbows in the spray.

Embrace ease here and let go of anything that's in your way.

Easy breath,

Easy mind,

Easy heart.

Rest well.