The Lorienyan city was alive with whispers.
High above, bridges of living wood arched between ancient trees, their leaves glimmering faintly with woven runelight. The air carried the faint perfume of blossoms, the ever-present heartbeat of the World Tree somewhere deeper in the forest.
To the elves of this city, such peace was natural, eternal. To the humans huddled below, it was suffocating.
They had been given a clearing at the city's edge, a place where foreign guests might not offend the harmony of elven life.
Tents rose from soil rather than platforms from branches, and even here, warding glyphs glowed faintly in the roots, as if reminding the humans that their welcome was provisional at best.
