The sea-mists common to Hithlum lie heavily over Dor-lómin today, though the strong sunlight finds its way through them all the same. Still, the world has a hazy feel, and sounds don't travel as far as they otherwise might.
It's a fine late summer's day, and the mists will likely get stronger as autumn turns the corner. For now, though, there's rich fields watered by the mist as much as the rain or river, and there's a bountiful harvest on the horizon, and a general sense of hope in the air. There's a field lying fallow, here, sheltered from the winds that sometimes race off the mountains by strong lines of orchard trees bearing their first crop of fruit.
(It's the summer of the four hundred and fifty fifth year of the First Age of Middle Earth, and the world lies on a precipice.)
It's quiet today, though - or at least the morning is.