A bit of my stories.

[Ninquelote]

I've always been called a 'short but sweet' writer, which I believe describes me very well. Here's the first chapter to one of my stories.

A docile breeze bent the tall grass that blanketed the forest clearing like a pale beryl sheath, hinted with flecks of beige and deep russet in places, marking the oncoming winter. The grass bent in shallow channels, varying in places, the wind undulating gently across the small meadow. The sterling-barked trees were adorned with leaves of crimson and gold, lining the clearing with a circlet of flaxen petiole. The sun dipped low in the western horizon, casting shades of aureate light against the cerise hue of the autumnal foliage.

A grey-cloaked figure crouched close to the clearing floor, level with the earth. It shifted positions slightly, moving forward, to a miniscule imprint in the grass. From beneath the cloak, a long, gauntleted right arm stretched out, laced with patterned leather and small beryl set along the knuckles. Long, pale, tapered fingers reached out to trace the outline of the indent in the grass, and then drew back abruptly, recoiling as if afraid of the mark. The figure remained crouched for a moment, recollecting its thoughts as it stared at the mark disdainfully.

The figure stood abruptly, revealing its thin frame as the slack of the grey cloak snapped to attention at the sudden movement. The slender figure ran through the tall grass, making no noise as it reached the trees with ease. It spoke in an unintelligible language, and as if in command, a heavily built, grey-dappled horse emerged from the birch copse, chewing its bit with slight annoyance. The peppered stallion snorted as his rider approached, shaking his muzzle as the hand that had previously touched the imprint in the grass stroked his mottled-grey neck. The slender, cloaked figure entwined its fingers in the horses dark mane, mounting their steed and positioning their lithe form comfortably into the Elven-made saddle. The rider moved to grab the reigns hanging loosely about their horses neck, pulling back lightly as they finally had them in their leather-bound grasp.

The stallion's neck arched slightly as his bit was pulled against his tongue, pinching him uncomfortably. He then began to back-step in protest, but soon was urged forward by the slackening of the reigns and the light nudge in his ribs that his rider gave him. He began with a bouncy trot, at first awkwardly, then with a quickening pace that slowly turned into a rolling canter, his rider needing not to guide him through the dense woodland surrounding them. Despite his fast pace, he picked his way carefully through the trees, carrying his cloaked rider through the forest.

In their haste, the rider's hood and cloak were thrown back by the wind, revealing the wiry, lean build of a female elf. She was clad in padded leather, dyed green with intricate embroidery lining the shoulders and upper arms; the breastplate of her armor also laid with a lattice of silvery designs common among her kin. A necklace, the jewelry meshwork of beryl, the same pale green as her gauntlets, and slightly tarnished silver was wrapped around her neck. It was adorned with a thin, white gold leaf, highly polished but worn slightly at the edges that were once sharp. This elf-maiden had a silky, pale complexion, her eyes like pale sage in the dim light of the setting sun. Her hair was loose, clipped short, and whipping behind her in her rapid pace, her face intent on her travel.



Her pace was kept with vigor for a long while, neither Elf nor Horse needing to stop for nearly a moments rest for an hour or more. The female elf pulled back on the reigns of her stallion without warning, her horse stopping with a slight lift of his forelegs in protest. She leaned forward at his movement, and dismounted with ease, settling him quickly as she slipped the reigns over his head. She grasped them firmly within her right hand and then dropped to her knees, bowing to an unseen deity. She held her head low, closing her eyes, the Elven-maid’s face changing from that of a will to be in haste to a more respectful manner.
(continued...)

[Ninquelote]

“I am a daughter of Canayen, I will serve God for all time,” she repeated solemnly, her voice soft and humble. At these words, a second elf dropped from the low branches of a nearby tree, clad in the same grey and green as the first. Her hair was of flaxen hue, while her eyes reflected the dull green of the sparse forest grass that littered the ground. Her face was fair, of course, as all Elves may be. Although in some quality of beauty this elf was lacking, but in another, less evident way, she flourished in her own unique attraction.

“My lady,” she said quickly, her voice as plain and hidden as her features, “we have awaited your return,” she then bobbed her head respectfully. The first elf then grasped the sentry’s pale-skinned hand firmly with her own gauntleted left, “Maikawethiel, my old friend.”

“Mi'lady, Calenlassë,” the second elf, Maikawethiel, smiled, her plain, pale face lighting up as her expression shifted from her otherwise cautious look. “You are in haste, yet you still have the time to talk with me.”

“There is always time for haste. Friends are dear to me,” Calenlassë said warmly, shaking her friend’s hand with vigor. After a few moments, she withdrew her hand, and mounted her now outwardly placid steed, “But I fear I have no time for talk, this news is bad.”

“I understand,” Maikawethiel said simply, nodding, “May your roads be swift and kind,” she patted Calenlassë’s mount cautiously, wary of his disreputed biting of strangers. As if her thought had spurred the stallion’s next action, the horse nudged her hand with an outstretched muzzle, but then thought better of this as he received a sharp kick from his mistress. This action was enforced with the words she spoke, harsh and quick.

“Be kind, Aratoamin,” Her words seemed to urge the stallion back into his previous calm state; as if to fortify his charade of inner tranquility, his back right hoof lifted. It rested solemnly on the tip of the nail, and Aratoamin did no more, the horse hoping to keep his dignity. “Thank you,” Calenlassë smiled, then turned her attention back to her comrade, “and thank you as well,” she said quickly, and then placed her right hand to her heart, extending it in an arc to her friend. Maikawethiel repeated the gesture, and without a word, Calenlassë’s boots dug into her horse’s sides for a second time, urging him into the same rolling gallop that had bore them swiftly before.

“Good luck,” Maiawethiel called as the sudden movement of hooves kicked up some dried leaves. As they sped off, her eyes caught the last glimmer of the silvery fur of her liege’s horse, and she added solemnly, “And may God be with you.”

[Ninquelote]

Thoughts? Comments? Criticism?

Anyway, I'll post the next chapter if you want me to.

[Lief Erikson]

You certainly put a lot of effort into description. There's a lot of it in there; perhaps even a little too much considering the briefness of what happens in that space. A lot of the conversation is also formalities, polite greetings and exchanges without much meaning.

The primary part where something happens is this:
“You are in haste, yet you still have the time to talk with me.”

“There is always time for haste. Friends are dear to me,” Calenlassë said warmly, shaking her friend’s hand with vigor. After a few moments, she withdrew her hand, and mounted her now outwardly placid steed, “But I fear I have no time for talk, this news is bad.”
That's the primary place where we actually learn something new.

The description you have there is really good; you're great at painting a picture and describing what things look like. That's extremely useful in story writing, but it can be overdone. I've read some books by fantasy writers where that happens a lot.

How many chapters are there in the story? I am interested in reading the next :).

[gimli7410]

it sounds pretty good

[Gwaimir Windgem]

As I told you before, I think it's really beautifully written, and I live your descriptive style and expressive wording. :)

[crickhollow]

wow, I'm really impressed. That was beautiful.:) I do have just a surface suggestion, as I'm still working on final exams, and haven't time to go too in-depth.

In the first section, your prose would flow much better if you dropped the adjectives after their first use. It's hard because you don't reveal her identity until a little later on, so you can't even use the pronouns 'she' and 'her'. after you've described her as 'slender' and 'cloaked', just continue to refer to her as 'the figure', and 'the rider'.

[IronParrot]

You have a very strong opening in that it is highly visual: "the rider's hood and cloak were thrown back by the wind" is a good character revelation, and very easy to visualize - the kind of key phrase an illustrator would build upon.

I do share crickhollow's comment about pronoun issues in the first segment. Observe:

The figure stood abruptly, revealing its thin frame as the slack of the grey cloak snapped to attention at the sudden movement. The slender figure ran through the tall grass, making no noise as it reached the trees with ease. It spoke in an unintelligible language, and as if in command, a heavily built, grey-dappled horse emerged from the birch copse, chewing its bit with slight annoyance. The peppered stallion snorted as his rider approached, shaking his muzzle as the hand that had previously touched the imprint in the grass stroked his mottled-grey neck. The slender, cloaked figure entwined its fingers in the horses dark mane, mounting their steed and positioning their lithe form comfortably into the Elven-made saddle. The rider moved to grab the reigns hanging loosely about their horses neck, pulling back lightly as they finally had them in their leather-bound grasp.
It does seem pretty redundant. In fact, the first two instances almost sounded like you were distinguishing between two different characters, the first time I read it. Definitely cut the redundant adjectives, move them to the front, and be aware of how your sentences sound in succession - "The figure" this, "the figure" that does seem to wear thin pretty quickly. This is just a minor cosmetic detail (also: reins on horses, not reigns), but in terms of actual content, I don't have so many gripes.

Something that I think is important to a fantasy story, if you want it to hold my attention, is to establish very quickly what makes your fantasy world so special and different from all others, and what justifies you creating a whole separate world in the first place. You have a good start there: right in the first two segments, we already know that this involves Elves of the variety large enough to ride horses, and that they live in a monotheistic society in harmony with the environment. Now take it from there.

[Gwaimir Windgem]

Hey, I just noticed: you changed "Eru" to "God" when you posted this. Any particular reason?

[Ninquelote]

Originally posted by Gwaimir Windgem
Hey, I just noticed: you changed "Eru" to "God" when you posted this. Any particular reason?

I didn't want to be accused of copying.


As for the redundancy, I didn't know what else to put! :D
Anyway, as for the one request to see the next chapter, I'll post it soon.

[Ninquelote]

The moon hung low in the horizon, the sharp edges of its sickle shape seeming to dig into the sky. It clung there like a crooked spider in an invisible, unending web of pale blue and black. The crescent’s luminescent crust was tinted a deep red, which cast a dim light across the crimson, tawny and auburn foliage that crowned the silvery bark of the trees beneath. A collection of cloud, black and heavy with rain, began to materialize in the western edge of the sky, close to where the bloodied spider clung. The crescent moon, not yet at it’s zenith, made the shadows of trees twist and contort into nightmarish figures. Each umbra spiked and contorted into an unearthly, inhuman shape, like an image of the Underdark itself.

Entwined in these shadows were the Drow, nightmarish figures in their own right. They kept to their respective shadows. They were unable, or unwilling to tolerate the light of the scarlet sickle against their raven-hued skin, the sun having only just set. From behind one of the large trees, a glint of unearthly white upon black could be seen, but then slipping back into shadow once more. When the foreboding rain clouds had passed to cover the offending light, a Drow emerged from its hiding places.

“The moon is red, blood will be spilt this night.” It muttered, twisted laughter and malicious tones entwined with the cruel words. The figure’s gaze, previously locked upon the oddly-coloured moon, had shifted to the ground, which was littered with grass and forest leaves. As this particular Drow stepped from its own distorted shadow, the smaller, lithe physique revealed that he was a male of his particular species. His white, almost transparent skin reflected the pale red moonlight that seeped through the dense black clouds. Blue veins were set against this figure’s pale skin, and they coursed in a lattice of ultramarine against white, tracing across his thin face. His waxen hair made his skin dull in comparison to its own blanched white, and this was tied back into neat plaits, set with dark stones and metal. Along his back were lined eight sickle-like blades, which glinted wickedly in the filtered moonlight, their edges flecked with darkened, layered rust. As this one Drow emerged from the shadows, the umbra seemed to stretch to keep its master concealed from all light. As the darkness receded back to its former source, other Drow were reassured by their leader’s emergence, and followed suit.
Their black forms blended into the preceding umbra of the trees, and as each Drow left the shadow of the foliage; their eyes narrowed at the filtered light of the silvery, ruddy moon, and then they turned their attention to their leader. All the red eyes, an unflattering image the moon, turned inwards in their circle, towards the pale-skinned Drow. He placed an equally white hand, too laced with trails of blue, upon his belt, and surveyed the Drow.

[congressmn]

ooo nice and flowery.

[Ninquelote]

They were garbed all in black leather, studded with the images of spiders, the abdomen of each peaked to a sharp spike. The eight legs of each were stretched out along the hide, and each touched another spider’s leg, thus creating a meshwork of arachnids. Their blades, if they owned one, hug loosely on their belts, each also bearing the likeness of a spider in some way. Others bore quivers and a bow slung over their shoulders, but they all carried the confidence of a skilled warrior. As if in contrast, the one that seemed to lead them did not have the air of a fighter, but rather, the air of an aristocrat, even a scholar of sorts.

“The time to strike is coming,” the white Drow began, still refusing to face his kindred as the whispering in the ranks ceased, full attention turning towards the one who had spoken. His voice was unnaturally smooth for a Drow, and his lips enunciated perfectly the harsh language his kindred spoke. The way he talked publicly seemed to make the cruel linguistics have a sudden grace and charm. “The red moon has come, it is getting bigger each night. Our thirst for war will soon be quenched.” There were slight murmurs of excitement as his speech continued, but a few narrowed their bright eyes at him, and one, a Drow bowman, stood up angrily. All of the eyes now turned towards him, waiting.

“You are not our leader, pale skin!” he snarled, “You are no female.” As if to accentuate his point, the ebony-skinned hand that rested upon his sword hilt pulled at the blade, loosening it from its sheath. The slight glint of reflected light that the weapon had to offer was enough to cause the albino Drow to turn slightly, and to watch the other from one pale red eye. A moment’s silence hung between them, one watching the other’s threatening movements as his own weapon hung loosely against his back, covered partially by his long tresses.

“I have gathered you all together to rise up against the harsh rule of the females. If you are against me then you wish to be enslaved by the lesser of our kind,” These words sparked a slight pause among the ranks, and the Drow that had begun the initial mutiny growled slightly, his eyes narrowed in disgust, if not slight confusion.
“Your words do not daunt us. You have led us to the surface to wage a stupid war against those that live here!” A few hushed murmurs of agreement supported his statement, and he smiled maliciously while the albino Drow looked at him with a slightly bored expression. “Our powers are taken from us on the surface. You are nothing but an ourcast who wants to play hero!”

The albino Drow took from his back a small device, set in the shape of a spider as were nearly all of their weapons and armor. Each of this spider-like device’s small legs were set with a long, curved blade. Expertly, this Drow held it out to the other, belly-first as it would seem. Unknowing or boldly, the other stepped forward, curious at the slight clicking and clinking sounds it made, like metal against metal. Then, with a quick flick of the pale skinned Drow’s wrist, each of the legs shot forth from its base, and latched onto the back of the rebellious Drow’s head. The other Drow watched in slight amusement, with scattered fear, as the Drow’s face looked on in horror as it was torn off with a cruel sound of skin tearing.

[Ninquelote]

Grimly, the albino Drow retracted the spring-chain apparatus, and peeled the bloody, black flesh from the blades. The body fell to the ground, but not without the last strains of life still clinging to the bleeding Drow. As the last of his soul escaped from the freshly-killed corpse, the Drow placed the device back. As the eyes of the others looked up in interest from the dead body, he chuckled. As if the stench of freshly drawn blood has prodded the overhead clouds to finally drop their rain, the water that fell from the sky in large droplets began to wash the dark blood away.

“Let it be known to all that my prophecies do come true, for tonight the moon was red and heavy with blood, and now that blood shall lie on the lands of our enemy. We shall reshape this land in our image, and with that we shall prove ourselves to be worthy of her favour!” Along with the cheers that followed his words, an exceptionally exuberant Drow shouted, Istolil the
Drow shall rip the land from the surface elves just as he ripped the face from the rebel! And in this moment Istolil, the albino Drow, knew that he had nearly won.

[Ninquelote]

I also write poems, usually about Lord of The Rings or The Silmarillion, but today I took a turn and wrote a poem for French class after we took a period to remember the Dada play the entire French unit saw. Here it is:

Pendant que
le chat moyen souffre
le chien dit,
"Ça suffit."
Et le poisson égaye
Et les oiseaux gazouillent
dans le bonheur...
Mais les autres chats se lamentent
Penser s'un sort tel que pire
Comme souffrir moyenment.

Le sort de chats
les mensonges seulement dans les mains
des chats se.

Mais quand nous épargnons les chiens, le poisson
et les oiseaux
du sort de Chats
Nous les épargnons totalement? Ou seulement d'un sort plus moins
Alors qu'ils endureront-ils?

And here's the translation, if you happen to not speak French. :p

While the average cat suffers
the dog says, "that suffices."
And the fish cheer
And the birds twitter
in happiness...
But the other cats moan
To think themselves as such as worse fate
to suffer averagely.

The fate of cats the lie
only in the hands
of the cats themselves.

But when we save the dogs, the fish
and the birds
of the fate of Cats, do we save them totally? Or only of a lesser fate
then what they will endure?

[Ninquelote]

I'm also currently writing a ballad for another section of The Silmarillion, also part of the Beren and Luthien chapter.

(I have to add more to the beginning.)

The hall, filled with Sindarin Elves
Had now seemed silence-crowned
Awe-struck, they were, to see his will
Yet wanting Beren downed

Death, King claimed, should come to him
For his foolish words
And he would, save for the oath
That Luthien had head

Baseborn! Mortal! Spy! He named
And even Morgoth’s thrall
But Beren, son of Barahir
Would not rise to call

“Death” he said “You can give me
earned or unearned;”
But the King’s names he renounced
His lordly stature spurned

Finarfin, son of Indis fair
Father of Felagund
His crest upon Barahir’s ring
Proved him elven-loved

Emerald-eyed, the serpents were
Golden crown held high
All eyes looked towards this crest
For Beren had no lied

Melian shared with Thingol
Her vision of Beren
That Beren’s death was not to be
Issued out by him

Elwe looked to his daughter
In his eye, his beloved
Deeming her to be much higher
Than the stars above

(Stuff goes here, I decided to skip a bit and add it in later.)

Beren laughed at Thingol’s words;
An unexpected mirth
“For gems Elves sell their daughters,
when they are above worth.”

Beren swore he would return
Silmaril in hand,
And with that he bowed and left
Elwe’s hidden land.

Melian did admire
Thingol’s cunning plan
For sending Beren on a quest
Beyond the strength of man

But she had seen an ill fate
Coming to Luthien
Thingol’s word would cost him too
And not just Beren

[Ninquelote]

Here's a few corrections:

*Luthien had heard
*Beren had not lied

[Gwaimir Windgem]

Wow...if we do have an Entmoot anthology, I think it should feature Nin. ;) Spectacular writing, just beautiful. :)

[Ninquelote]

:D thankee!

[Lief Erikson]

I can't think of any specifics I wanted to speak about or criticisms, so that's probably why I haven't posted here earlier. It's still very beautiful and very, very descriptive :). You're wonderful at description; it could be just a matter of taste that I'd be interested in seeing a little more immediate interaction. Such as things happening at a faster pace, but I'm greatly enjoying your skilled use of description.

It's very good :).

[Ninquelote]

Calenlassë and her horse had traveled a great distance since their first meeting with the Elven sentry. Little change occurred in the forests’ surroundings of varying trees, although it had become denser, with clearings becoming less and less common as they neared the heart of the forest. Pale white bark, nearly transparent, covered the threes that the Elves held sacred within these woods. They were not the most abundant, and could not be by far. The normal maple, evergreen and other miscellaneous trees were the majority of these woods, however the birch was in the highest esteem to the forest’s residents.
Aratoamin now had long trails of sweat running down his mottled-grey fur, starting beneath his Elven-made saddle and ending at his underbelly. Even though he seemed as if he were very uncomfortable and exhausted from the long ride, he pressed on at the will of his rider. He cared deeply for her, that much was plain, and although he was born and raised among the sloping green fields of Calendor, his heart too rested in the forest with his rider.
As suddenly as before, Calenlassë jerked her horse’s reins, pulling him to an abrupt stop. Unlike before, Aratoamin did not shift or bay in protest, but kept quiet and clam, as if sensing his mistress’ intentions. He was lead on slowly, nudged by the soft tug of his reins, pulled by his rider.
“Come, Aratoamin,” these two soft-spoken words, just like her previous harsh ones, were obeyed without question. They spurred him into a quicker walk, at pace with Calenlassë’s long, confident strides. With a slight grin, despite the circumstances of her mission, she pulled her hood down slightly, obscuring any view that would try to look upon her face. Her reasons for doing this were unknown, save for herself and her horse.
“Halt.” The command echoed abrasively through the trees, and for the time being, Calenlassë did as she was told. Her fingers tightened on her horse’s reins as the stallion’s head drooped, seeming to add age to his otherwise young and muscular form. The owner of the voice dropped from noiselessly from the overhanging boughs, an inconspicuous russet-coloured cloak covering the tall, lithe shape of a male elf. Calenlassë simply waited, knowing that more than one sentry was placed so close to the Elven province. A sly smile flitted across her face for a moment as second voice issued subsequent command to the other’s first.
“State your name and purpose.” The second voice was not as cold and callous as the first; however the same tone of authority was placed firmly into both voices. Calenlassë looked upwards; her face shadowed by the small pinnacles of light that was filtered through the tree’s enmeshed leaves as well as the hood that covered part of her face. Her smile was concealed from the, one visible and one still hidden, sentries.
“What business is it of yours, where my travels take me, let alone my name?” At these words, the first elf was slightly taken aback, and the second elf dropped from the same place in the trees to speak his part. He was nearly identical to the first, although with a slightly heavier build.
“It is in our authority to judge who comes to the borders of these lands.” The second elf replied, his voice curt and carrying the same coldhearted tone. From beneath her hood, Calenlassë’s eyebrows raised at this rather blunt assertion of power.
“It is in your authority to stop a wayfaring traveler?” She retorted, the question answered in a form as forthright as the last.
“Yes, we do not know their intentions or their permission to wander among the land.” The second elf replied, his tone going from ascertain of power to mild annoyance. Sensing such an irritation from her questioning, Calenlassë continued.
“And is it in your authority to stop marauders with evil intentions?”

[Ninquelote]

“Of course, they are a threat.” The first elf replied, his attitude rather of frank statements to dissuade the traveler from nearing their intended destination than any sort of annoyance. Once could even liken his tone to simply trying to stress his intelligence, and that deeply amused Calenlassë.
“And, is your authority to question your commanders and comrades?” She asked, her voice feigning concern, as if the ‘wayfaring traveler’ she was playing was searching for some sort of injustice in their judgments against her.
“No, it is not, we are under the command of our Lord and Lady, and our comrades we know.” Their combined self-confidence and annoyance towards the questions crumbled as slowly as Calenlassë’s hand, as it reached up to pull the hood away from her face. Her steed, Aratoamin, then perked up, beginning with his ears, and eventually spreading to his large hooves. He began to prance back and forth, filled with the vigor of his youth that was only suppressed for a few minutes.
“Then keep within the restrictions of your menial and low-ranking authority, and do not stop the nobles and betters from entering their own land.” This statement was harsh enough, delivered from the sentries’ superior. However, with the added sting of stating their names in a condescending voice, the humility was escalated. “Tathar and Maltalin, I held high expectations from you.”
Immediately they kneeled before the daughter of their Lord, their heads bowed low, a gesture of shame and unworthiness. With a slight rasp to his voice, the first elf, Tathar, was the first to apologize. He did so quickly, nary a space nor breath between his words. “Lady Calenlassë, we are sorry for our impudence.”
“We now only ask for your forgiveness.” Maltalin added, and a glance was exchanged between the two guards, Tathar grateful.
“Rise,” Calenlassë said, as if bored with their show of humbleness. With an upward raise of her hand, she bade them to stand, while her steed shook his head and snorted, as if he himself ware amused. Mounting her horse with the same inhuman grace as before, she looked down upon the two sentries, both with gritted teeth and clenched fists. “Make a point not to stop me any longer.”
With her final purpose achieved, she urged her stallion into yet another quick-paced walk. Calenlassë left them, with neither a wave nor an act of wishing them a goodbye.
“What is it that she requests from us?” Maltalin asked, his monotonous voice asking the confused question in an almost rhetoric manner.
“She wants us to no longer question those that come hooded and cloaked within the inner borders of this land.” The elf Tathar answered, as if this was a simple and understandable demand. “Insolent brat,” Tathar added in a slight mutter as his gaze was fixed on the road leading into the province Narvinyë. This statement was agreed upon when Maltalin nodded. The dark green fabric that covered his head made the movement a simple bob of the hood, but this simple gesture spoke as clear as Tathar’s words.

[Ninquelote]

Here's a bit of 'The Ballad of Thingol's Request'. It could also benamed, 'The Ballad of Tinuviel's Dowry'. I don't know yet. It's just a bit, and it's not as easily named as 'The Ballad of The Hunting of The Wolf'.

The Ballad of Something or Other

The hall, filled with Sindarin Elves
had now seemed silence-crowned
Awe-struck, they were, to see his will
yet wanting Beren downed

Death, King claimed, should come to him
for his foolish words
And he would, save for the oath
that Lúthien had heard

Baseborn! Mortal! Spy! He named
and even Morgoth's thrall
But Beren, son of Barahir
would not rise to his call

“Death,” said he, “You can give me
earned or uneared;”
But the King's names her renounced
his lordly stature spurned

Finarfin, son of Indis fair
father of Felagund
his crest upon Barahir's ring
proved him Elven-loved

Emerald-eyed, these serpents were
golden crown held high
All eyes looked towards this crest
for Beren had not lied

Melian shared with Thingol
her vision of beren
That Beren's death was not to be
issued out by him.

Elwë looked to his daughter,
in his eyes, his beloved
deeming her to be much higher
than the stars above

Sons of lords, unhappy men
and their petty kings
to these he would not give her
through Beren's emerald ring

“I see the ring, son of Barahir,
and perceive that you are proud”
but through his father Beren only
won little renown

Thingol claimed his daugher too
great a prize for him
Unless he went to Morgoth's lair
and claimed one jewel within.

Those that were in the King's court
presumed from their lord's speech
That Lúthein and Silmaril
were beyond Beren's reach.

Beren laughed at Thingol's words
an unexpected mirth
“For gems Elves sell their daughters,
when they are above worth.”

Beren swore he would return
Silmaril in hand,
And with that he bowed and left
Elwë's hidden land.

Melian did admire
Thingols' cunning plan
For sending Beren on a quest
beyond the strength of man.

But she had seen an ill fate
coming to Lúthein
Thingol's words had cost him dear
the price not just Beren.

[Gwaimir Windgem]

I haven't finished the Ballad yet, but I did read the story, and thought it was well-written. Calenlasse's a cruel she-Elf, isn't she? ;) But for some reason, it didn't really have seem to me to have the same quality as the last two; can't really say more than that. It could easily have been the circumstances, of course. But still nice, and well-written.

[Lief Erikson]

I don't remember whether Calenlassë’s good or bad; the story chapters are taking a while in coming and I'm reading the Wheel of Time very actively right now, which occupies my mind a lot in terms of storyline. However, she did strike me as a bit of a bully and a tad stupid.

I mean, those guards were just doing their duty. It was their job to watch for people, and when the traveler keeps talking back, it's their job to take action and impose their authority. If she's in charge of them, she should commend them for their service. The guards probably should have forced her to identify more quickly, rather than putting up with her impudence.

The descriptive quality was as good as ever. Still a bit longwinded for me, but still good :).