{ NOTE:  The following is a letter addressed to Lancogard North-took of the Shire, delivered to him by way of a raptor-bird bearing this parcel (which he keeps pressed in his Life-book) }

Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon

He stood by the hearth that night, stowed away in the corner of the tavern like a conversation piece too risky to leave out in the open for fear of what might be said about it. He stares down into the flames, watching the heat and light until it fizzles out to nothing more than ashen embers. The hearth slowly grows cold and empty. He wonders if he had also gone the same way. 

In the uncertain torchlight of Gath Forthnir, the aging dwarf read the letter for at least the twentieth time. Somewhere far in the distance, something massive shrieked loudly enough to be heard through the walls of living stone.

A torn page, crumpled at the bottom of Lonfrik's coin pouch. The words are written in small, neat Khuzdul, but phrases have been crossed out roughly.

Master Drivi,

Dawn broke, but it still wasn’t really light yet. Only a narrow red line delineated the otherwise black firmament in the east. The wind was blowing steadily from River Anduin, carrying the scent of rain with it.