Ethel came to me earlier today when I had sat down by the fire for a few moments. She was carrying with her a leather bound book that contained many pages. 

Greetings to you, my friend,

I send you this message by my hand, to be delivered by my trusted man, Aldholm. He smells fresher than most. You have met him before, and in any case he will present you with my token, which you will recognise. 

I brush away the heavy lock of hair that has fallen across the sleeping boy’s face. He blows against my touch, but does not wake. Thick, straw blonde hair it is, so typical of many of our folk. His eyes are greenish, and his nose seems overly large. He is young, no more than a year or so older than Ethel, I suspect. But then often girls take on the appearance of women at a younger age than boys take on the look of men?

Master Lóin, Son of Ladrun, Son of Sórrun, Esteemed among the Dourhands, was a great many years ago employed by his kin in carrying out a daring and mischievous heist within Thorin's Hall. Needing assistance in the completion of his task, he was aided by his son Lonfrik (Son of Lóin, Son of Ladrun, Esteemed among the Dourhands).

Dank, musty air draped heavily over the cave’s gloom. To most other creatures, the deepening dark would soon be impenetrable. To the eyes of a monster such as Grudkak, however, even the blackest nook had green traces hinting at the hidden shapes. With each unsteady, lumbering step, the darkness around him swelled to consume the hated dawn light. The farther he limped from the mouth of the cave, the more the thunder of the waterfall near its entrance faded into the answering rush of a smaller cascade somewhere deeper inside.

She turns the spearhead thrice over in her hand as though it is a ritual, the sleek metal cold on her fingertips. Her hands are warm and slick with sweat, heated by the ire that still burns warm in her breast. Her shoulders heave in sharp exhale as her thoughts mire and simmer on the outcome of the trial - or the excuse of a trial that it was. Aeshaeidr gently rubs her thumb along the slight curvature of the iron.

Tom let out a long, drawn out sigh as he idly traced his blood stained fingers along the stone wall of his cell. His hand was bruised and swollen with a coating of dried blood that begun to crack like an aging painting. It was a reminder of his actions, and the consequences that they wrought.

This was not his first visit, nor was it his second, to the Bree-Town Jail. However, it was the first he was in any fit state to remember the experience or contemplate why he was there.