Every single thing bequeathed daintiness and enchantment to the nightfall. The faint silvery shine of the moon reflected on the darkened hues of tree bark and leaves, and brushed scrapes of gleaming shades over the paths – guiding those who thought they’d been lost. The quiet whimper of draughts lulled weary eyes, blowing light feather kisses to their lids.

Flowing, as if floating in the air, were some creatures, moving in absolute grace, with downy garments and robes that swept along the passageway as they ambled. Chants were sung and hanging over them like a thin, indiscernible veil, high and haunting. The posse was benignly bathed in the glowing moonlight.

“Sam! Wood-Elves!”