02 - The crafter

Kor was broke and hungry. His only possession was now a small axe and a whittling knife. The bartering was unfair, but it was the only way how to get something useful for the remaining bits of rohan armor. The trader from Falcon clan knew it, so he threw in also solid tunic and trousers.

“Don’t be difficult.”  He said with a wry smile.

Difficult? She took a deep breath slowly.

She was not difficult.  Or she never used to be.

A scrawl on the page of Ella's journal. Beside it, the faint remains of a raspberry stain. 

Abandoned. Once more.

The Light a distant glimmer.

Where do I belong?

A Melethel! 

(A song of love contented, then love desolate, then love triumphant)

Pebble. Moss. Pebble. Pebble. All-heal. Early. Moss. Hoy. Daisy. Hello? Black pebble. Are you looking for something. Huh?

It was funny, the dark-haired woman thought, how only a day could change everything. She sat upon the stool of her dressing table, looking into the mirror as she brushed her hair. It fell past her shoulders, down to her waist, in thick, raven waves. It had been a celebrated head of hair when she had lived in Dol Amroth. She had been known for brushing it with a hundred strokes of the hairbrush each night, causing it to shine perfectly. She still kept to this task, each night running the brush down her tresses in rhythmic patterns. She no longer needed to count.

Azaghâlbad’s log: 18th of ‘Afkalm

Delioron, my dear friend,