A warm wind swept over Fëor’s shoulder—but it had not come from the áren that was resting there just a moment ago. It was a new presence, unfamiliar and unforeseen. His morning meditation disrupted, he turned to greet whatever had come to his glade. He expected to see another songbird or squirrel, but...

An ethereal face returned his gaze.

He stumbled back, his hand nearly crushing the elëamýr that still danced in delight with the new wind that had come. Fëor, on the other hand, trembled.

“A-are you a…a fëánor?”

Before him, at least to his eyes, stood a spirit from Ethýría, the realm of wind. Strange, silken clothes covered her luminous skin. Her ears resembled the rays of a star, long and flared. But her hair was the color of dawn, with strands of orange and pink that rivaled even the radiance of an elëamýr—and that was unusual for a celestial spirit. Fëor, however, was too flustered to give that much thought.

To his question, the spirit pointed at herself in surprise before waving her hand dismissively. She then turned her face aside, her eyes wandering down towards the earth.

“I’m nothing so noble,” she muttered.

It was only then, when the warm wind she carried began to cool with her pained expression, that Fëor noticed more about his unexpected guest. Her once-exquisite garments were blemished, bearing stains and nicks. Her hair, though tended to with care, was frizzing free from its trappings. It was clear now that she had been traveling, but the only thing she carried was a small woven basket upon her back. Fëor, being a naive fellow, took this alone as proof that she was indeed a denizen of Ánor, the material realm, like himself.

“I-I see. I’m sorry.” Fëor squeaked, fidgeting awkwardly. “It’s just that, well…it felt like you were…that your presence was just so bright and warm…I just assumed you came from Ethýría.”

As his eyes shifted downward and his face turned pink, the ‘spirit’ before him blushed. Fëor was hardly a smooth talker, but his words were nonetheless filled with sincerity; and complimenting another person’s wind—their soul and aura—was the highest praise one could give in Älthren (the land they lived in). For that reason, her gaze grew even more wary.

“Do you really not know what I am?” She questioned, eyes narrowing.

Contrary to his clumsy performance, Fëor returned her suspicious stare with one of his own, solid and steady. It was surprisingly complex, deep with meaning that would take time to unravel—but it only lasted for a moment.

“Well,” he dragged, putting a hand to his chin, “I don’t think you’re from Gälenor, at least. I may be a bit recluse, but I still know what lives around here well enough. Ëolrí, Luálrí…you don’t seem to fit either of those groups, and they’re pretty diverse.”

He paused, considering a third option on his fingers.

“As for the other group,” he continued slowly with eyes more keen, “I don’t think any dwell this far east. If so, I’ve never seen them or heard about them; but you're not really like them, from what I've been told. Your wind is too warm and welcoming. It’s not stifling enough to be like them.“

Fëor noticed her shrink from those words, the pained expression from before returning to her face as she clenched a fist over her chest. She looked away, seeking solace in the roots of the tree she hid behind. She was clearly hurt by his words, and that answered his suspicion. And yet…

Fëor’s tough act crumbled in that instant. Caving immediately, he tried to rectify the damage his careless response caused. He was simply too soft.

"S-so...if you're none of those things," he spluttered, clearing his throat, "what are you?"

The sorrowful 'spirit' turned her eyes to Fëor, hesitating and considering her next actions carefully.

"If you really don't know," she mumbled, "then I'd rather not say."

Surprised by her stubbornness, Fëor's face froze in a silly expression of shock before finally letting out a sigh.

"Okay," he replied, "could you at least tell me your name, then? You're still labelled as 'strange spirit' in my head, so..."

She continued to stare.

"I-I can start, if that helps. My name is Fëor. And yours?"

He was (awkwardly) trying to break the tension and start this conversation over, but that 'strange spirit' continued to eye him with suspicion, nearly glaring at him as she tried to discern his motives.

"I understand your hesitation,” Fëor exasperated, “but you’re the one that came to me, wandering around my home, while I was sitting here alone, bothering no one, enjoying the grove’s morning air.”

He glared back at her.

She defiantly puffed her checks at him before finally sighing in defeat.

“Ërna.”

“Ërn…a?” He mumbled. “That’s an unusual name for an—.“ Fëor stopped himself before taking that thought too far; and fortunately, she didn’t hear him. 

“Th-that’s a lovely name,” he resumed, trying to regain his composure. “To be named after herbs, the humblest stars of the earth, is an honor.”

The look on Ërna’s face, which now seemed more distant and showed signs of discomfort, indicated that Fëor’s flattery had failed yet again. Struggling to hold a conversation with this stranger, he desperately grasped for something, anything, to save him from this exhausting endeavor. But…he wasn’t very good at this sort of thing.

“So, uh…what brings you here?” He asked sheepishly.

At first, Ërna responded to his awkwardness with exhaustion of her own, sighing and slouching; but it also seemed that Fëor’s clumsy attempt at conversation helped bring her back from a bad state of mind, because her expression softened. No longer dwelling on distant thoughts, Ërna grabbed the straps of her woven basket and faced Fëor.

“I’m on a journey to study herbs.”