Egfor counts off on his fingers, "Loud, lewd, crude, obnoxious, brazen, too forward, brash, too lust driven, impulsive, alcoholic..." He sighs, shaking his head, "I tone that down around certain people, like you, but it is who I really am and most find me insufferable."

The forge was brimming with life. The heavy thud of a dozen hammers thundered in the deep, throwing sparks of searing orange and yellow. A sizzling sound, oil welcoming burning steel, then a chime as the crossguard was hammered onto the freshly-wrought blade. The forge, it awed the beardling. 

“Are you ready, lad?” 
“Aye, pa.” 

A letter, or perhaps a draft of a letter lay crunpled under a table of the Hammer and Harp Inn. It was written in a messy but careful scrawl, the writer unused to writing in the Common Tongue. A silver ring with a single ruby lay on top of it, several sheets of blank paper near it. It looked like the author left in a hurry and abandoned these items without realizing. 

Idhrandir, my dearly beloved.

          It is the Year of Lamentation in the lore of the Elves, a time of deep sorrow and deeper despair.  None of the Elves who set out to battle have returned from the Unnumbered Tears, and only rumors flying down the wind reach the Elves of the Falas.  The tales speak of the armies of the Shadow pouring out of the North, ravaging all the lands from what was once Hithlum and Dor-Lómin south to Arvernien and the eaves of Nimbrethil.  For months after that terrible summer C&

Eduwiges of Faldham was angry to the point of madness. She arose several hours before the dawning, saddled up Oenone and rode out of Rivendell at breakneck speed. She crossed the bridge and forced the watch to scatter as she thundered by. Sindarin curses littered her wake like hailstones on a tin roof.