I live to write and share. Fanfictions on webnovel, and original works under pseudonyme d'elfe as a contractor. I am also a published author in France, http://www.delfyne-gwenn.fr/index.php/fr/
2020-12-03 Joined France
Her first elvish word was Estel, it was the name of Elrond foster son from what the twins had told her. She had a few doubts about who this might be, and a good part of her really wanted Strider to be the one. Perhaps she was mistaken, but for sure there was something more than a man in the ranger, the depth of is grey eyes told her so. AND, he was the only human in Rivendell. A good candidate then. For the moment, she had realised that if elves did not bear their age through skin or posture, their eyes betrayed it all. Frances was slowly coming to terms with the idea of living a thousand years old, but still she got issues with that thought. However, in Strider's eyes there was some wisdom rarely seen on other men his age, and that intrigued her. Even Maximus, who had suffered a great deal, or the Jedi had not given her this weird impression.
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— "You cannot prevent us from talking. The people deserve to know what is happening there!"
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ch 12 Barbecue
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Well, OK, sleeping seemed good right now. If she had not been in full alert because of the possibility to be ambushed again by the freaky ghosts, Frances would have collapsed to the ground and slept twenty-four hours in a row. The young woman was dead on her feet, her body not used to skipping a whole night and walking ten hours with close to no sustenance. She made a mental note to keep in better shape in the future, or upgrade her training with the FBI to keep up with the requirements of time travel and medieval roads. If she had not been hiking around in the mountains so much as a kid, and always walking in cities rather than using a car, the young woman would have collapsed halfway. Remembering how people made fun of her, telling her that she should have been born in another century with her stupid refusal of using too many machines, Frances realised that her little habits might have saved her for once.
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ch 31 Epilogue
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— "Ugh, no! I don't want to ever hear about driving a car again. It's done, I'm relieved."
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Jumping down his mare, Tristan unsheathed his sword with a purposeful move, all aches forgotten. Rage flew through his veins; the scout was no stranger to violence. He relished in extinguishing life efficiently, drank in the thrill of battle like nectar, washing his blade in the blood of his enemies. Men or women made no difference; any warrior that measured up to him met his end by his blade. But there was no duplicity in his heart. Despite rumours, Tristan wasn't cruel, nor sadistic. He killed, as quickly and efficiently as possible, whomever accepted to attack him. A warrior's honour, in which the assailant bowed to the skill of his opponent. May the best win.
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— "The seamstress will have you, she owes me. Better you change your name, though"
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d_elfe
Well, OK, sleeping seemed good right now. If she had not been in full alert because of the possibility to be ambushed again by the freaky ghosts, Frances would have collapsed to the ground and slept twenty-four hours in a row. The young woman was dead on her feet, her body not used to skipping a whole night and walking ten hours with close to no sustenance. She made a mental note to keep in better shape in the future, or upgrade her training with the FBI to keep up with the requirements of time travel and medieval roads. If she had not been hiking around in the mountains so much as a kid, and always walking in cities rather than using a car, the young woman would have collapsed halfway. Remembering how people made fun of her, telling her that she should have been born in another century with her stupid refusal of using too many machines, Frances realised that her little habits might have saved her for once.
Frances
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