Daurrie, the youngest of the sons of Gurni, had once more forgotten to pick up the order of fresh cheese that was awaiting them at the markets of Bree. Lunch was served and the young Silvan handed over the rest of the tavern business to Dal, hoping to be able to rush to Bree and pick up the forgotten crate before the inn would close for the day.

((content warning: a man gets tortured. It is vague))

Slow, purposeful footfalls echoed through the empty stone room. The sounds of struggle and rattling chains had ceased an hour prior.

The dark red robed figure stilled in front of one of his prisoners, the leader of them. He had poisoned them, not lethally, but enough to paralyze them. He had strict orders to make this as painful as possible.

Khalis did not know what drew him to the hall that day, truth be told many had often spoken quietly about how the elf lord seemed less focussed and carefree since returning from the far south with the remains of the company he rode with. It was well known that less than half returned to Imladris, their role had always been a perilous one in service to the lord of the vale.

Madaurbeth,

I had this most deep and powerful of dreams. It felt so vivid and real, and it was so long. Was it some kind of strange elf magic that came upon me? But when I woke up from this long, real feeling dream, something had changed. think I may be begining to feel different again.

The guilt is going to eat me up if I don't write that apology letter. I have no idea what to write, but I feel the urge to more than ever. Maybe it will take throwing numerous parchments into the fire.

((OOC: The writing style looks rushed. It is written in ink on a loose piece of parchment.))

The sound of sea waves crashing against the stony shore was quite soothing. Even inside her mud and stivk hut, she enjoyed the sounds of the sea she loved for years as she cut up a small fish at the counter. The starless, hazy night sky was visible through her one, small window above the counter. As she finished with the fish and set it over her tiny fire in the corner, the woman looked longingly to her straw and animal hide sleeping mat. It had been another long, excruciatingly exhausting day toiling in the feilds. The older she got, the worse the labor became.

I had a nightmare… I've relived the Hornburg countless nights, and this pales in comparison to the true fear I felt last night.

I came home from working in the fields to see Dem with another man, all my possessions were replaced with this stranger's. It was as if I never existed. He called this strange man his prince, his love, his husband. I could only watch with tears running down my face as I watched them…

Words are like breath on a cold day, you say them and they're gone. But write them down and they will be remembered. The stories of the people of Rohan are their history, and will never be forgotten. Songs of their deeds will be sung long after their passing.