-Morgul Vale, T.A.-

“Mallossel, cease! That is an order from the First Autarch!” Cardanith hissed after her; she felt a hand try to grab her cloak but it fell short. The world seemed to slow down as she raised her halberd high into the area, glinting light off of the dim moon.

My dear Maerle,

The beat of hooves on the ground was the pace to which she set her breathing. She whipped her head around to look behind her as the steed charged, trying to make any sense of their pursuers in the darkness. Nimroch released an anxious whinny, and the white steed took it upon himself to move with more speed.

She sat in absolute silence, feeling the clear, cold water drip slowly over the crystaline stone. Drop...by drop. The water, like rage, slowly impacting the implacable stone, unyielding as time itself. Yet, in years and years, eons perhaps, the water will make inroads through the stone, eventually breaking it asunder through sheer persistence.

So too may rage destroy time, she reflected, drop by drop...and smiled softly beneath her blank silver mask.

Finally closing the armoury doors behind her, Hertha took a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders. There was one more thing she wanted to do before she headed for her rented accommodation, and a well deserved sleep. Her day had been full at the forge. Then three travellers had arrived to stay a few days at the Roaring Dragon, and two with horses that needed her attention.

I cannot sleep yet again. What a suprise. Perhaps writing out my thoughts will allow me to sleep:

What is the meaning of blood and heritage? Ultimately, what does it mean? We all die. We all return to the earth and nourish her. And she nourishes us. We bleed the same red. So why does it matter how pure ones lineage is? What good does us when we are in the grave?

Gondolin, First Age: 436

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The small child gripped tightly to the older elf's hand, scared among the grand partying and festivities.

"Nana..." He whispers.

        Occasionally the piercing sound of a sudden outburst or the echo of boisterous laughter from a few late night drinkers in the common room of the Prancing Pony would drift down the hallway and into the kitchen to reach her ears, but there was little else to break the silence of the night.