The keeper has apparently been keeping up with your progress with her language. The moment you are capable of consistent communication you are summoned to meet her. You have your own questions for her, so you decide to agree to speak to her. Having to follow the one who delivered the summons to the centre of camp feels a little insulting; you have been here a week, you can walk to the keeper's wagon unescorted. This feeling quickly shifts into suspicion when said wagon comes into view. The keeper is not alone. The blonde leader from your first day is there with three of the hunters who you'd class as nearly acceptable, they are all armed and armoured. As you approach the keeper, the hunters fan out to surround you like a guard detail, or a prisoner escort. You slowly move your left hand to rest on your sword hilt as you begin to speak, "You call me?"
The keeper does not smile but there is a certain forced lightness to her face and tone as she speaks, "Yes, thank you for coming so soon. Please, let us go for a walk."
She turns and begins to lead you away from the camp while the blonde watches you with clear hostility. You see little choice but to follow, save perhaps if you were to suddenly attack the keeper and her guards, which for now you are unwilling to do.

The walk is one of the tensest experiences you have had since your attempted ambush of Morgoth. By the time you stop, just out of sight of camp, you have your power gathered just beneath the surface, a heartbeat away from a shield or a song. Your tension is obviously shared by the hunters accompanying you, they are a single wrong move away from drawing their swords. It is understandable that, when the keeper whirls to face you and the feeling of power grows yet again, your sword is half drawn and your shield is called. The hissing sound of swords being freed from their sheathes echoes around the forest as your draw is matched by your 'escort'. The air around the keeper shimmers as she calls up her own shield and both sides hesitate. You wait for them to begin their attack and it seems they are waiting for you to do the same. After five minutes that feel like an age the keeper breaks the tension.
"What are you?" She hisses at you.
Of all the things you were expecting that particular question wasn't one of them. Your sword lowers slightly, and you narrow your eyes at her. Your confusion must have been clear because she continues.
"Don't pretend to be confused. Coming from the Beyond might be excused, it's dangerous but possible if a mage is desperate enough. Not speaking any language I've ever heard would be unusual; but I've never been to Antiva so you might have been from there, though your skin is far too light to be native to the area. But you cannot possibly expect me to believe you are nothing more than a mage when I step into the Beyond to discover that a spirit of purest light accompanies you wherever you go? That it mimics your every action and sleeps when you do is only further proof of the spirit that shares your body."
It takes you several incredibly tense minutes to unpack her wall of words, of which you understand perhaps two thirds. You are not one for fear, you speak cautiously lest you cause this situation to explode into violence "Beyond?"
The keepers face twists into a furious snarl as she says "The Fade, the land of dreams, the Spirit Realm! I don't care what you call it! Answer. My. Question." Her knuckles whitening as she grips her staff.
The spirit realm? She can see the Unseen? That's supposed to be something only the Ainur can do. No, the light she describes must be the Light of Valinor so she's still seeing the Unseen through metaphor, she's not an Ainur. But how can a mortal see the Unseen?
"I ask again what are you!? Answer or be destroyed as an abomination!" The keeper's voice is growing higher pitched. It seems you have no further time for contemplation. You have to make a decision now.

You are torn between two options, your annoyance at her attempting to interrogate you urges you to be evasive with your answers; but the clear tension in the air and the certainty that you are only one wrong word away from battle prove more persuasive, though only just.
"I travel from other world. I do not know how came here. The light is light of Valinor, it is me but also not me." You really wish you spoke the language better, a nuanced discussion of the light of Valinor is far beyond your command of this tongue.
"Another world? I already know you're a spirt of the Beyond. I'm asking what kind you are?" She's not relaxing even slightly, but at least she's not getting more tense.
"No. Not Beyond, further." You hold up your right hand, your sword in your left lowering a little further. "Here," moving your hand a little further along, "Beyond," moving your hand further still "big dark, Oia Lumë" repeating the movement with a new hand "Rambamoro, fence of sleep?" You're really not sure if that translation is right as you make your final hand motion "home"
The weapons around you are not lowering at all. The keeper's eyes narrow and you're certain that she's about to act. Your explanation is clearly not her and in a combination of frustration and fury you shout "Not spirit. Quende of Noldor of Calaquendi from Valinor. Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol leader of Noldor in long time ago, fought spirit of dark Morgoth. Had father Fëanáro and mother Nerdanel. Not spirit, not from beyond, from far far away."
Your sudden shout has the entire group of Dalish on edge once again. They had relaxed, almost imperceptibly, when your sword had lowered. The keeper stares into your eyes, searching for something or perhaps trying to compel you to some action. You have to fight to prevent yourself from simply shaking her in frustration; or maybe just stabbing her, you could go either way at this point.
"How can I trust what you say?" She asks, more to herself than you
"Why ask if not trust?" You answer mostly out of disbelief. If you're going to kill someone you should just do it, why waste time asking questions if you aren't going to believe the answers.
She's a bit taken aback by your question and seems to become contemplative for a few minutes. The silence stretches out. Finally she speaks "Say I do believe you. Say I accept you're some kind of traveller from some deep part of the Beyond. What proof can you offer me that you're not possessed? That by allowing you to walk free among my people I'm not putting them in grave danger?" Some tiny amount of tension bleeds out of the conversation and her question is almost plaintive.
You cannot believe this woman. How many times do you have to say that you're not from the Unseen world before she gets the idea? On that note, what the hell does possession mean? Does she think you're some kind of houseless? You take several deep breaths to fight back your rage. Now that you're not about to be stabbed because you took too long to answer you can carefully curate your word choice for minimum confusion. Once again making gestures with your free hand to indicate each location relative to the other you begin
"Here, Dalishnor. Beyond, Alavélë. Big Dark Oia Lumë. Rambamoro. Arda. I am from Arda. Come here, I not know how. I am Calaquendi, cala is light. Light is me. All Noldor, all Calaquendi share light. It is spirit like Dalish have spirit. In beyond light of Valinor make Calaquendi shine like sun."
Oh wonderful you've moved from confusion and desperate hope to disbelief and growing anger. It's becoming more and more clear that she has you in a certain place in her world view. If you had greater command of the language or understanding of her culture perhaps you might be able to sway her with words alone, but you're going to need to convince her with 'proof'.

You can't decide what would be the best way to 'prove' that you're not some kind of houseless. Since you can't prove a negative you'll have to prove that you're not a mortal and that you're from another world. You have two real options, the light of the Eldar and your cloak. Manifesting the light of the Eldar is not something done lightly and she may very well react negatively. On the other hand your cloak, while unusual, may not be different enough. Others might decide not to do either, too afraid of the consequences. Not you, you do both.

Marethari had been the keeper of Sabrae clan for forty eight years. She was right now facing what she was slowly growing more convinced was an unusual mage rather than a demon. She was sure now that he was not possessed, not in the traditional manner anyway. Her suspicion was that he had, much like many a fool mage, allowed a spirit to cohabit his body; technically a possession but not what most meant by the term. She knew enough of spirits to know that even one that is benevolent when it possesses someone will be warped into a dark version of itself the longer it remains within the living. She feared she would be forced to harden her heart and slay the mage who had wandered into her camp and been nothing but helpful, if somewhat rude. Worse she had dared hope that she had found some kind of spirit possession a statue that she could speak to. When he drew himself up to his full height and the electric sensation of magic filled the air she stepped back diverting all strength to her magic shell and her guards responded by backing up and raising their shields or hiding behind a tree. But no attack came, and when she focused back on Nelyafinwë she beheld a much changed shemlen. Whereas before he had always had the bearing of a warrior, hard eyes and decisive movements, he now stood like a king of old. His eyes seemed as though they contained unfathomable wisdom and his hard expression had become something strange, noble as a knight of song and yet somehow so very sad. Even his movements changed, carrying a grace and nobility she had not thought possible. This... what was this? She felt, for the first time in nearly five decades, bubbling from within her, hope. Not a mundane hope such as that of a good year, but something deeper and more powerful. A certainty that the world will be better tomorrow than it was yesterday, that despite the terrible things she has seen there is true good in the world if only she dares to look. She was not the only one, if her guards' expressions and the weapons that they have lowered were any indication. Her dread drained out of her as Nelyafinwë began to speak.

The light of the Eldar has long been your greatest weapon against the forces of darkness. It steals away evil's ability to inspire fear and grants a clarity of mind that can be the difference between victory and defeat. Now that the tension of this gathering has dispersed, and you are no longer being threatened by weapons you sheathe your sword. Removing your cloak, you present it to your interrogator.
"My mother made this. Here my name." You point to the silver Tengwar Maitimo stitched into the collar.
"It not tear." Grabbing the garment in two hands you strive with all your might, but true to your word it doesn't tear. You think you feel a phantom swat at your ear as you do so.
"It not get dirt." Throwing your cloak on the ground you rub it in with your boot before lifting it to reveal that it as clean as it ever was. You definitely feel your ears being boxed this time.
Wincing you extend the cloak to the keeper, who takes it with a mix of awe and caution. She turns it over in her hands, probing at it. She examines the Tengwar stitching at great length, casting spells in the manner of this land. Finally she takes a stick and with a small knife carves an exact copy of what was written on your cloak and pours some blue liquid from a flask into the channels. Power surges for a few seconds before she raises up the stick and snaps it in two. You sense that this is the moment, and you speak.
"I am Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, son of Fëanáro. I am no spirit. I come from another land far away. Past the Beyond."

The keeper stares at you with wide eyes as the light of the Eldar fades.
"Another world? Past the Beyond? I… I…"
She's not the only person who's clearly having some kind of breakdown. Several of the guards have dropped their weapons and lean against something for support. You yourself feel waves of exhaustion overtake you, as though you had been wielding the light for hours instead of maybe a minute. Taking all this into consideration you decide to speak up.
"I need rest. Talk more later?" you don't bother hiding the exhaustion in your voice.
"Yes, Yes we will… talk later. Yes." The keeper staggers away back to the camp, supported by the blonde warrior. Gathering your cloak from where she's dropped it you press your back against a tree and slide down it. You'll head back once you've caught your breath.

The sun is sinking beneath the tops of the trees, people are growing nervous. Why isn't the hunting party back yet? Even the blonde leader of the hunters is pacing back and forth. You have climbed atop one of the wagons for a better vantage point and are thus the first to see one of the party returning. Just one, the hunter's clothes are torn and ragged, dried blood clinging to his arm and his quiver is empty. He has lost his bow at some point and his face is covered in small scratches. You call out to inform those who are present of his arrival and thus he pelts into a group of concerned Dalish. As you approach you overhear his half delirious ramblings.
"ders, giant spiders everywhere. They came from the trees. We had not chance, I had to run. Had to get help."
There are many mutterings, cursing and wailing. The body language of the crowd speaks of mourning. The words you overhear suggest that they are assuming that the hunting party is all dead. If these 'giant spiders are what you suspect, then they are wrong. You speak up to correct their assumptions.
"Ungweliantësen eat living. Hunt still live." Many eyes turn towards you, some with suspicion. But you are right, to inflict wounds the size of what you see before you and to overwhelm a hunting party these are no mere spiders the size of a plate. It must be Ungweliantë's children. "Care of natsë" you try to use your hands to indicate webs but you're not sure how well that comes across.
Regardless of how much they understand your words they start to talk with more hope. Discussing the feasibility of a rescue operation and how many should be sent. The blonde mentions that his hunting party found a dark area of the forest that seems to be the den of the spiders. During this conversation you also learn that the word for natsë is 'web'.

You have no intention of wasting any time. While the Dalish mill about trying to put together a force strong enough to take a well defended position you just leave at once. You know for a fact that none of Ungweliantë's mightier children would dare the sun, the wickedness that would drive them to fear it commensurate with their strength. You should be able to face them alone and every second will count. Your departure is noticed but only one person seems to decide to follow you, it's the old warrior from last week. You make sure to nod in gratitude to him.

The setting sun turns the twilight of the forest into a deep gloom that even your eyes struggle to pierce. The lack of moon and star light is unfortunate, you hate to face the forces of darkness with anything less than every possible advantage. Undeterred by this absence, your strides carry you deeper into the forest, your only companions at a half jog trying to keep up. As you travel you strive to share everything you know about the Ungweliantësen. Your companion has apparently spent no small amount of time facing them himself and shares several pieces of advice that you wouldn't have thought of with you. Soon enough you come across the hollow cast into total darkness by the great webs that stretch between the trees. Upon this interconnected web of spider silk great bloated shapes scurry back and forth. You count near a score of them of varying size. You're surprised by how pale they are, you would have thought they'd share their ancestor's dark carapace. That, when considered along with the lack of shadows clinging to the webs suggests that these are descended only distantly from the light eater. You see off to the side somewhat a number of bundles that are large enough to contain people. Though the spiders chitter and hiss they do not speak. Their silence, though undeniably disturbing, is a good sign they must be far indeed from the blood of Ungweliantë and a far lesser challenge for it.

"What's the plan?" your companion asks, "I don't think we can take that many on our own."
He's wrong about that, if they're as close to being a normal spider as you suspect you could take them all alone. That said there's something to be said for caution, particularly when there are lives on the line. There are two of you though, if you split up one of you could secure the prisoners while the other fought. You cast your mind back to the other great rescues of the first age, your own and Beren's. Stealth isn't your forte and you'd both have to do it if you didn't want to risk the prisoners but if it works it works. The other option is power, you have no intention of singing them to sleep but fire will work just as well, the only problem is that you don't know if you can keep the fire from the prisoners. With all your options laid out like that the best choice is obvious.

You say to your companion, "Go to others, quiet. I stay, make noise, hurt many." Your follower nods and does his best to disappear into the forest. He may very well have managed it if the only people here were atani, but you can still see him. You'll need to make a bigger distraction which suits you fine. You haven't lied, you fully intend to be a distraction and kill many of the spiders. You just mean for that 'many' to be 'all' and you don't so much intend for your follower to save the others as to protect them if any of the spiders get ideas about hostages. This is personal, Ungweliantë stole the light of the two trees. She may be beyond your vengeance, but her children are not. You draw your blade as you step forward, webs parting beneath quendi steel. As the spiders turn to see what has disturbed their nest you let out a cry. The forest echoes with the words that once brought fear to the hearts of all evil; a fear so great that the mere echo of the Noldor's battle cry can put the darkness to flight.
"A VARDA ELENTÁRI!"

The webs fail to impede your charge and the first spider dies before any of its kin can react. Curvo's gift to you from so long ago cleaves through silk and the beast's soft carapace and rends the flesh beneath in twain. Half of the remainder charge towards you while the other half shoot their webbing at you. Your sword remains effective in clearing you a path to your targets and keeping your limbs unbound. These creatures clearly lack their mother's cunning if they had not realised that their webs mean little to you. You meet the charging spiders with a charge of your own. Your battle cry rings out again as you strike two down in a single blow. As the back line of the spiders rushes in venomous strikes glances off your armour. A lunge is met with the ichor covered point of your blade. The next few minutes descend into a frenzy of slashing, stabbing, and dodging, spider fangs and webs never quite managing to touch you. How could they? You are Nelyafinwë, from whom orcs once fled at the mere sight of. No balrog, dragon or troll managed to claim your life when the might of Morgoth stood behind them. These pale shadows of a far mightier spider are nothing to you. When the last of them falls you do not feel relief or the joy of victory, for what other end could there have been? You stab your sword into the ground to clean the foul ichor of the beasts from it before you walk to the webbed bundles and your follower.

You appreciate that he doesn't waste any time in marvelling at your deed, taking it in stride. He simply gets to work cutting the prisoners from their cocoons. His knife does get caught occasionally but it is far more suited to this work than your sword. Your sword is as long by sword standards as you are tall by quendi standards and you dread that you might cut through the web and into the Dalish below. You do what you can to help with brute force and a knife of your own. After nearly ten minutes the first hunter is freed and the work begins to accelerate. You manage to free all the survivors before the rescue party arrives. Despite your best efforts not all of the hunters survived. Three of the Dalish will not return. One died of his wounds, likely before the spiders even reached their lair. Another isn't here at all, having fought to the death or been consumed already. The last one was about to be eaten and died while you were cutting her free. Despite these losses the mood when returning is a cheerful one. Your prompt action had prevented many deaths, and though you could not save them all you did save many. An impromptu party breaks out as people celebrate the miraculous rescue of their people. The sight of families reunited and joyful tears of the survivors fills your heart with a hope for the future. It feels good to save lives instead of ending them. You look at your right hand, recalling the pain of the Silmaril burning in your hand. Perhaps you can be worthy again.