Furley looked down at the cards, once more, fanning through the deck. They were certainly magnificent works of art, indeed. He'd enjoyed playing the game, and he'd found that it brought people together in taverns and gave them something to share a drink over. 

The more and more he looked at the set, the more curious he became, and recalled his conversation with the merchant. 

"So, what exactly are they?"
"I don't know. Some form of game. It's an ancient game, originating from Gondor". 

Furley sighed, looking at the fireplace, shuffling his cards idly in his hands, looking down at the box designed for him by Bexly. There was something about the cards that had mesmerised him so. The game seemed simple, yet eloquent, and he'd seen nothing quite like it either. And the artwork was sublime; every brushstroke adding character and colour to the deck. 

((sloppily penned in Lumi-kieli))

I almost took up the pen to write in my dairy the night before last, but I was in no mood to write. I might have torn pages. How angry I was! I am more calm now and hopefully things will be quiet again. But I have not seen B since, and I am worrying about him, and about if he is upset with me.

My dearest sisters; Ealhwyn, Cwenthryth, Leofgifu, and and Sigeburg, to husbands and children:

Far too long have I gone without writing. I admit, I have not gotten any of your letters. I have discovered that Wulf has intercepted any of them from getting to me. And now I will reply. 

Idhrandir and I are no more, I regret to inform you. He, like all the others, has left me too. I fell in and out of love several times since you last heard- let me expand:

Dearest brother,

I beg of you, to please write back! We have not heard from you since before you said you were leaving for an accursed place called Angmar!

I do not believe my letters have been reaching you, as I have sent out numerous ones a week since your last and have gotten naught back. Are you well? Are you getting my letters?

Tell me about your love and romance, dear brother! Tell me about this new life you have! All four of us and our husbands eagerly await your next letters with baited breath.

The time had inevitably come where Daphne was leaving Esgaroth and heading home.

It had now been a few months since Daphne had arrived at the home of her mother's blood relatives, and she was becoming increasingly homesick. Her aunt Berarna knocked gently and entered her room as she was packing her belongings.

"Daph, what are you doing?" She crossed her arms and frowned at her niece, who was kneeling on the floor at the moment. "You're not leaving now?"

There's always such a battle between winter and spring. Winter doesn't want to give up, but spring won't be held at bay forever. So, they go back and forth. Green shoots insist on pushing up in the tiniest bit of sunlight, then a storm comes in and dumps snow on them. But they don't die. Then a frost, maybe, is the next attack. That can kill tender, growing things. Ice is the true killer.