Elgaraen

The farmer, Ted, hands me a bag of food. There is a note of regret in his eyes as he turns away. He knows he has got the work of two men from me in payment for his straw-scented hospitality, aware that he is unlikely to see such a tireless farmhand again.

Hard, physical work. Take up the wood, bring down the axe hard. Split the timber. Repeat. I let myself go into the repetitive work. Fill my senses with the actions and the scent of the wood. Hold my attention on the feel of my muscles, so swiftly refreshed after the un-natural ravages of the stone.

The man brings out tea and thick cut cheese and bread. I eat. Taste the cream that lies in the butter. Wipe sweat from my eyes. I work.

I'll sit back no more she thought as she put pen to paper, this has gone on for long enough.  I'll not sit idle and watch my kinsmen, my mentor, ride into battle without me. All those years I have spent under the guiding hand of Amlarad for what? To sit and sew, to cook?

Never did I believe that I would find myself comforted among the devices of the Enemy. But here we are, licking our wounds around a campfire among the Enemy's perch, and yet we quietly restrain our sense of triumph with grim thoughts of the coming trials. It's a sobering exercise. I sit here and write all that I can recall before my own unease and fatigue will lose them to sluggishness. 

Suilad, Hir Halbarad.

I apologize in delay before sending the first report. The  Eldar host has arrived at Lin Giliath in good order, though it is certain that the Enemy already knows of their coming. Impressive a sight though their waving banners and loud horn-calls might be; it can have done nothing but alert our enemies to their presence.