The cold winds of the Misty Mountains whip around the small camp with a howl and a hiss. Although the company is braced against the face of a cliff in an attempt to protect themselves from the howling chill, it does little to warm them once night falls and the stone they sleep upon turns frigid. Tucked away beneath an overhang, apart from the rest of the group, sit a pair of elves huddling together for what little warmth to be found.

This letter is written in neat handwriting, even though the rows are never evenly distributed along the piece of paper. There is an ink stain between the second and third paragraphs. It seems to be the seventh in a series of letters.

The scrape of metal against the stone floors of Felegoth leaves a shrieking sound in its wake. It draws the attention of all those who watch the sorrowful march of the younger sister through the halls. The rhythmic clink of the steel against the steps is the beat to which she sets her footfalls, trudging through the long halls of wood, and stone, and eyes that look on in silent pity. Pitiable is she that walks alone now.