The ice and cold gnawed through the fabric of the black robes, biting his skin. The man cared not. He had a task at hand. His hands grew numb from the cold, tearing through the dirt and clawing away through the earth with his bare hands as he dug. Sharp stones cut his skin, blood and tears into the earth. 

A poem Syllea wrote for the one who cares for her most, Demlemoth.

Tall as a tree,

But snuggly as a puppy.

Strong as a mountain,

Kind as a friend.

The woman stood at the end of the fence row, with the sloping hill to her back. Her hands were folded together over her belly, and she was gazing along the road that ran about the base of the hill. Robins were warbling in the bare, frosted branches of a tall, broad oak tree, that overshadowed her with its boughs. The sound seemed peculiar to her ears. 

I can't sleep. Tairy is out like a snuffed candle. I could spend the whole of the night just looking at him. I love the way my whole inside aches just to be looking at his face. I think it might be past midnight, but maybe not. It is raining now, and the sound is so very pleasant. Our room is tiny, and these hobbit beds are tinier still, but there's nowhere in all the world that I'd rather be. 

Xanderian walked silently through the moonlit streets of Dol Amroth. Her sister and Finchley and Edu had returned home two nights ago, with two newcomers in tow. Aliandith of the Firstborn, and a woman called Ellsabeth fleeing boredom and frustration in Bree.

Two nights passed, a raven croaked it's dismal song outside of the Willowshade Estate, Lord Thorn Willowshade, sat at his desk, head in his hands as his thoughts flew on blackened wings to his fallen companion, her body hanging in the markets for him to find and to the last words they had shared... Those of anger and failings and business arrangements. All of it seemed rather small by comparison now, he wished it had all happened differently, that he had guarded her better as a friend in his business should.

It had been a rough night for Furley. It had pained him, and he'd been battered and bruised, and he'd merely only had a couple of sips of ale from the tankard he had purchased in the Prancing Pony. Now, he found himself in the Bree-Town Jail, and he wasn't in the least bit amused.