The morning sun shone high overhead, peeking through wisps of white clouds, and entering the small room through the cracks in the wooden shutters of the window. Amelia stirred, first to swat away the flies buzzing about her head, only to realize there were none and her head was probably ringing from that one small mug of ale.

A dry cough escaped her lips as she sat up, wincing from the slight soreness of her back... she really needed to do something about that wretched cot.

The previous night's events flashed back into existence, piece by piece, filling up the gaps in the great puzzle called memory. The ale, the conversation, the 'getting her stuffing knocked out by a wooden stick,' and then... a strange look in her mother's eyes.

*DING*

Her gaze fell upon the light blue interface hovering in the air mere inches from her face,

[You have slept in a bed. HP & MP fully restored.]

*COUGH *COUGH

She coughed, feeling the slight pain in the back of her throat as though someone had just poked through her neck with an iron poker. A sudden jolt ran down her spine and she remembered one more word spoked merely a couple of hours ago,

'Númenórean'

Her mother reacted as though someone had just chipped her precious butchering blades and then taken them to hack at firewood... which would have most likely ended with the person getting an arrow between their eyebrows.

Curiosity gnawed at her, she always was the curious one of her family, and she glanced at the blue interface hanging in the air, she couldn't contain her desire to demand some answers,

"Can you tell me something about the Númenóreans?"

She whispered and the screen seemed to flicker for a moment before displaying a new entry,

[Topic: Númenor/Númenórean]

[Memories Detected]

[Updating Database]

[...]

Amelia waited while the screen continued to flicker for a few more seconds,

[Update Complete]

Númenórean

- A race of long-lived and noble men descended from the Edain of the First Age.

- Granted the island kingdom of Númenor as a dwelling by the Valar for their service.

- Renowned for their advanced technology, powerful armies, and exceptional lifespan.

- Led by Ar-Pharazôn, they turned against the Valar, which led to their destruction.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

- Survivors fled to Middle-earth and established the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor.

- Due to their diluted bloodlines, by the War of the Rings, few possessed a lesser form of their ancestor's abilities.

Traits:

- Númenórean are granted especially long lives. The average lifespan ranges from 350 years to as much as 420. Those of the line of Elros lived 400 years and more.

- The average Númenórean is taller than two Rangar or 6'4" with the tallest of their race being 7'11" or 2.41 m.

.

..

...

[Using System Authority to search for User's Bloodline...][Tracing...]

[Tracing...]

[Tracing...]

The interface flickered as it continued its search, and after a few moments, it displayed a new message:

[ERROR!]

[BLOODLINE LINK FOUND!]

[UPDATING BLOODLINE INFORMATION!]

[Founder of the Bloodline: Tindómiel]

[Error!]

[UPDATED]

[Founder of Bloodline: Elros(Númenórean) and Dior(Half-Elven)]

[Species: Human(Númenórean/Half-elf)]

Amelia stared at the interface, one eye wide open and the other squinted in suspicion... that... was a bit too much to take in...

"Does this mean... I have pointy ears too?"

Her hand shot up and touched the tip of her earlobe, running along its boundary... no pointy tip to be found.

'That's strange...'

She racked her brain, trying to remember if her Lore-nut of a brain could remember anything... anything at all...

'Dior... Dior... Now where have I heard that name before?'

The interface made no effort to answer her question, it had done its job of throwing the puzzle into her lap where its duty ended.

"Alright,"

She mumbled, rubbing her face wryly.

"I should get some water."

She swung her legs off the cot, and a wave of dizziness washed over her, accompanied by the sting from her sore back. She stumbled, grabbing at the edge of the cot to steady herself.

As she did so, she found a small piece of cloth folded and tucked neatly next to her pillow. Unfolding it, she recognized the smooth writing of her mother... they were one of the few in the town who knew their letters. All the rangers did of course, and some of the others such as the healer, the merchant, and a couple of other members of the small society also knew how to read and write,

"Gone till evening. Don't go pokin' about. Rest and get ready for training tonight. Love, Ma."

Amelia frowned, the letters were barely legible and that was not without fault on the cloth's part... it was a torn wool shirt. A white, torn wool shirt...

SIGH

'Whatever,'

The sleep had been a poor rest, as a matter of fact, it had only tired her out more. She still had to take care of the workshop... and it was not as though she wouldn't be busy with it being Old Farmer Trunip's thirteenth grandson's birth... sometimes, she marveled at the old man's tenacity.

Amelia sighed, more animals to butcher, folding the note back up and tucked it under the straw pillow. Feather and cotton stuffed pillow was the luxury of noblemen and such... no such things to be found in a village governed by none but the elected mayor.

Steadying herself against the wall, she made her way across the room, careful not to fall face-first into anything that might break her nose. She reached for the pitcher of water on the small box by the window, poured herself a glass, and took a long sip...

BAH

It tasted like someone mixed sand with water along with a few other unsavory herbs... at least she could get used to it after spitting out a mouthful several times. It was not her past world... this was medieval high-fantasy with a hint of romance and a lot, lots and lots of gore.

SIP

"I don't like it here..."

And so, the grumbling began.