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FINGON Middle Earth Pre-Fingolfin's death	ELROS Middle Earth Childhood	AREDHEL Middle Earth Pre-forest
Fëanor Middle Earth ota	Ambarussa Middle Earth ota	Dís Middle Earth ota

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There is another out in the night, leading his horse by the reins, his features hidden by the dark and the hood pulled deep to shield himself from the rain. His steps are light, effortlessly so, even though he does not see to them being so as not even his horse's steps can be heard over the rain on the leaves.

It is the light of the lamp that draws him in, curiosity and the promise of another who feels more like his own kin than like one in alliance with the enemy guiding his steps. It is odd; he would think that this person is one of the Eldar, even more one of those that came with them across the sea; and one strong in spirit indeed, almost reminscent of the one who lead them here, of Fëanor.

But then... there is a strange quality to it, yet not one that marrs it, not one that would tell him to turn away.

Upon coming close enough, he calls out to the man. "Hail!" It is a short greeting, yet in the rain, no unnecesary words seem prudent.

In the great motion of the rain Luke can pick up on the little movements of animals, those that aren't tucked into shelter. But there is something else, something larger... something more reflective, or rather two somethings, one of whom quite outshines the other.

Luke perceives someone's sense in the Force as almost-sound, almost-touch. It changes like a face would with emotion and realization, and just like with faces, if he is not familiar with the owner the meaning of many of these changes is opaque. He stands to get a better look at the rain-blurred figures. A humanoid and some kind of equid, that's all he can tell, and the humanoid's sense is rich and heady.

"And to you," he calls back, careful but unafraid. He knows nothing about this place, it's better to be cautious. "It's drier under here. Come in!"

"Shall my horse make it as well?" It is a question not of curtesy - a horse more sturdy than impressive it is compared with most, bred for travel, not war or hunt. But it still will need more space than the shelter may have. He's stopping now, a short distance away only, not yet pushing back the hood, his coat hiding most of him; but his stance is peaceful, if hunched over slightly against the rain.

Luke looks up and back, glancing over his shelter. He'd maneuvered his X-wing on repulsors alone snug up against the cliff nearby, though it was too big to get into this shallow sandy cave. It's wrapped, landing struts and all, in a camo net that makes it look like part of the rock. There's still a tang of engines in the air.

"If he'll duck his head." Another look at the cloaked stranger. Luke shows his palms. "You might need to do that too, friend."

"I should think so, if he has to." He may not be tall for one of his kin, certainly not for one of the Noldor, but his head is still higher than that of the sturdy horse.

And duck under the presumed piece of rock (a strange smell clings to it, though he cannot place it at all) he will, letting go of the horse and leading it with a simple word, a soft touch against its fëa, the reins quickly undone before it trots past Luke.

He pushes back the hood once he is under the rock, revealing fine, even features of an almost ethereal beauty, pointed ears and long, dark hair, golden beads braided into his plaits. "Thank you for the shelter, stranger. Though a stranger I will not call you, if you should give me your name. Mine is Fingon."

He smiles. Luke is not tall. Among pilots that's seen as a good thing, among Jedi it doesn't matter, though people who knew his father always seem surprised at his size. Sometimes he does wonder how small his mother was, or is. "Come in, then! There's space."

Luke will remember that little flash of suggestion. He can call on the Force to influence or control animals, but the ease and swiftness of that touch is beyond what he's learned.

He's seen someone like this before, hasn't he? A Sephi with a compellingly otherworldly look. Images of someone, at least. He thinks he'd recall right away if it had been in person. Luke lets the thought sit; he'll remember, or not. "It's not a problem. I'm Luke Skywalker. I'm sorry I can't be much of a host, but my accommodations are yours and there's plenty of water." He's making a joke, in his understated way. Water had been an important part of hospitality, when he was a child.

He does recognize the joke for being one, the cues are clear enough even where the meaning is hidden from him, and replies in kind. "Though they may be simple, accommodations which provide shelter from the plentiful blessings of Ulmo and Manwë would at the moment be the greatest hospitality you could grant me."

He'll step over to the horse and free it from it's saddle and the little travel luggage that it carries, and then take off his own coat, drenched that it is, and look around for a place to spread it out in hopes of it drying a bit.

Taking off the heavy cloak reveals garments of quality, finely woven if worn through many days of travelling; a bow and arrows on his back, and a sword at his side, and a body that, muscular though lean, moves with a grace and precision that tells tales of him being a trained fighter.

Luke chuckles, and just infers from context. "They're generous. I should take that as an example."

There is a remote chance that Fingon here is at all familiar with space travel but rides an equid and favors primitive non-factory materials and weapons for his own reasons. More likely he's not. Maybe Luke should have shut off his lantern, an undecorated thing producing steady warm light enough to light the cave. It's manifestly not a fire and is no help whatsoever in drying or warming anything. Oh well.

Luke himself carries a small holstered blaster on one hip and the silvery hilt of his lightsaber on the other, visible here and there when his own cloak shifts. "Who's your friend? The horse."

"'tis but a horse." The way in which his words are said implies that it could be more than that, and that it could be; Celegorm's hound is not a mere hound, and the giant eagles are far from mere birds.

"Do you not have mere animals thence you come from?" There is no question that this man is a stranger to these lands, moreso than the men who came across the mountains whom Fingon has met before.

"We do. Sometimes they surprise us by revealing they're not mere at all. It's better to be courteous." He glances over the equid again and hooks his thumbs into his belt.

"I had a mount called Huey as a kid - as a child, I mean." Huey had been a great pebble-skinned lizard. Luke suspects there aren't the like here. "He was totally average for his kind, but he saved my life once. Another reason to be careful, I guess."

"That is very true." He finally starts to get comfortable, sitting down and stretching out his legs - it's been a long day.

And that is a curious cue - that he was a child. It doesn't necessarily make him human, but it does mean that he was born, or at least it should mean that. "Though to us, the difference still is visible, if one simply looks." Elves, men and dwarves as well as ainur have spirits, while simple animals do not. If he was to encounter a being seemingly animal or plant, yet in possession of a spirit, it would likely be noticeable to him just by sight.

Courteously Luke settles to the stone floor, cross-legged. He's interested that Fingon includes him in this 'us'. Power calls to power; what is this guest's and what he sees in Luke are worth investigating. "There are beings where it's more subtle, or it changes. Codru-Ji children are born as canidlike creatures. Animals, in all respects. They even have owners. But those who survive go through a change later and emerge as people, who remember what they learned as animals."

He smiles. Luke isn't going to say that Cordu-Ji are six-limbed, nor that Ruurians are insects. He'd like to see what Fingon thinks of the concept.

"Ruurians go the other way. When they're immature they are a particularly artistic people, but at some point in their natural lives their bodies change, and they become animals. Then they can comprehend some speech and recognize people they care about, but they can't focus on anything but eating and reproduction. I've met people in their animal stages of life, or very close to it. The line between a person and a beast can be fine."

Fingon inclines his head thoughtfully. "And one who was not bound to a body might act in a way that binds their spirit to it, for better and worse." Luke's story seems strange to him and unlikely, yet he has seen but a small part of Arda; their journey only having taken them to the other side of the same sea, where they received permission to take up residence and build dwellings in borderlands dangerous and of more strategical worth to those living on both of their sides than to themselves. Yet once the war will be over - and it will one day, they have to believe this - he will travel further, once him and his friends are free of the burden of leadership and duty. Maybe he will see those beings one day.

The way Fingon's sense changes with the notion isn't something Luke can read, but he's hoping it means giving it some thought, not rejecting it outright. Anyway, he has his own statement.

"Huh. Could you explain that a little more?" Luke smiles faintly. "My... experience with spirits moving from body to body hasn't been good."

A vast understatement. Luke's experiences with Cronal and the Reborn Emperor have marked him. Strengthened him, oh yes, brought him knowledge and power, but a shadow is on him now. Some of the knowing doesn't rest easy. Some of the power is too terrible to use.

"You have no knowledge of the Ainur?" It should not be a surprise to him; Oromë might have hunted wide and far in Middle Earth, and Morgoth sent his emissaries further still, but neither should have brought knowledge of the Valar thence. And neither might the Maiar have revealed themselves, if they dwelt in those lands far away that Luke hails from.

"Mighty beings are they, in spirit alone determined and taking shapes to their liking; yet if children are born to them, their power takes shape, and with the passing of time they might become less inclined to leave a shape once taken; and furthermore their shape will show their mind, and dark thoughts will give them an appearance terrible and dark."

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