[ A small smile touches his lips. He moves forward fluidly, a hand sliding over the stone balcony as he looks over the side, inevitably drawn far off across the meadows and, further, beyond the Greenwood. ]
It is not. My realm in Middle-Earth is not so fair as this, nor do the trees speak of peace and comfort as they do in yonder wood. They are sickly and wearied in Mirkwood; I find Glaschu a balm. [ A glance. ] What of the lands from whence you hail?
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[ A small smile touches his lips. He moves forward fluidly, a hand sliding over the stone balcony as he looks over the side, inevitably drawn far off across the meadows and, further, beyond the Greenwood. ]
It is not. My realm in Middle-Earth is not so fair as this, nor do the trees speak of peace and comfort as they do in yonder wood. They are sickly and wearied in Mirkwood; I find Glaschu a balm. [ A glance. ] What of the lands from whence you hail?