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The Harp


I was greatest bard that the Noldoli ever knew. My voice was rich and clear and strong as I sang of love and joy, of tears and grief and other things that then were yet to come and my fingers flew across the strings of my harp of gilded wood.

After centuries of silence, my voice is rough and raw and hands that once were long and lithe are misshapen, ugly claws. And where once I played on wood and gold and strings of twisted wire, the harp I hold now in my hands is made of guts and bone.