5th of May, 2956 T.A.<br/><br/>Arthalion was greeted by the dawn as it swept over Imladris - that which most knew as Rivendell.  The young Dunedain Ranger was already awake before the first rays touched him, but this was not unusual for him.  He was often awake to meet the rays of the blessed sun, and today was certainly no different.  It was true that today was the eve of his birth thirty-eight years ago, and thus marked another year he had survived against the Shadow.  Yet, even such a special event was not cause for him to sleep in.  Indeed, Arthalion would not have known how to do such a thing.  There he stood on his balcony watching the sunrise with a dark forest green cloak clasped about his shoulders with a silver seven-star pendant.  Over his upper body went a soft white undershirt, and then dark blue leather tunic edged in gold flames on the outside of his arms.  The tunic was buttoned with silver buttons matching the seven-star pendant he wore.  Matching leather pants covered his legs with soft black leather boots adorning his feet.  It was, perhaps, a bit fancier than he was use to wearing, but then he tended to be off in the wilderness on various missions and travels.  He rarely had the time to dress in such fine clothing, and this was not even the nicest articles he had at his disposal.  Despite being in Imladris; Arthalion still had his black weapons belt on, and there at his left side rested an Elven bastard sword with a single small emerald in the pommel inside an undecorated black leather scabbard.<br/><br/>Wind brushed through his long deep crimson wavy hair a bit briskly for a moment as he said a silent prayer to Varda:  Queen of the Stars and the Valar.  Unlike most of his kin - he revered the Queen of the Valar over any of the other just as the Elves did.  It was not that he did not respect Manwe:  Lord of the Valar and creator of the Great Eagles, or Ulmo:  Lord of the Waters, or any of the others.  It was just that Varda called to him more than any other of the Valar.  He had great faith in this highest of all servants Eru:  The One had gifted the world with.<br/><br/>Once the silent prayer was over; Arthalion turned and left his room to join those stirring within the House of Lord Elrond.  Often he would join those in the Hall of Fire to hear tales of old, or music from those who would sing.  Though he often ate alone; the young Dunedain noble still never failed to enter and relax there.  There were even a few times - rare ones indeed - when Arthalion would take up the harp and sing for those present, or tell tales of his own.  Yet, it had been seven long years since he had been in Rivendell, and he had only just returned late last night from his journeies.  As he descended the stairs - he thought about the threats Eriador faced soon from the gathering darkness.  There were slavers massing at the small forest of Rast Vorn just south of the Grey Havens.  There were barrow-wights stirring more frequently in the Barrow-Downs near Bree.  Tharbad, the anicent and ruined trade town had Hillmen in the service of Angmar gathering there to the south.  Everywhere he had gone there were signs the Enemy was moving, but not yet prepared.  Unless something was done to stop these troubles - the whole region of Eriador would again feel the bite of the Shadow.  Arthalion had no intention of letting such a thing come to pass.  The last time it had happened was when Arnor had been ruined beyond immediate salvation.  That had come with the fall of Fornost, and the later drowning of the last King:  Averdui.  Though the Enemy had been defeated later by combined forces of Gondor and the Elves - the realm remained in ruin.<br/><br/><br/>Arthalion often wondered if restoring the realm would be a way of putting an end to the threats he witnessed this past seven years, but to do so would require a great deal of work, time, energy, and no small number of people.  These thoughts plagued him even as he entered the Hall of Fire, and heard the gentle music from the front at the fireplace playing.  It made him smile slightly even with his grim mood, and he soon took a seat a distant corner with his back to the wall.  Such was his habit to face the room rather than have his back to it.