Tindir

Sarmëtecil was a Noldë, and proud, as such folk are wont to be, but even she trembled slightly before the stare of the Lady of the Pillar. "It is true, my lady. Great heaps of log-books are simply missing -- erm, not to be found at this time." She ran a finger under the collar of her burgundy tabard, which now seemed uncomfortably tight.

"What," Manadhlaer began, but fortified herself with a swig of tea before she continued. "Do you mean. Missing."

"It is our hope that in time, we may locate --"

It was not that, as she removed a stack of hairpins, Manadhlaer thought anything had gone particularly wrong at the Ball. Indeed, at times the dance-floor had been an impenetrable Huorn-forest of bodies through which she simply could not struggle hard enough to reach the other side of the room.

They say, Diary, that there is no fool like an old fool, and so I felt when -- having sent a panicky message to our Tûr via raven -- I discovered the source of the blood on the missing scribe's bed-clothes: a bat flew in somehow and chose to devour its mouse far from the hungry hawks -- indeed, hanging immediately above Sorontar's bed. A second search revealed tiny bones and, horrifyingly, the tail. 

Captain Sáranassë of the Order of the Arrow was many things, as she stood in Lady Manadhlaer’s office. She was tall, and fair in her austere way, and armored. She was a daughter of the Noldor, a creature of stealth and odd habits. She was a hardened warrior and a keeper of secrets. The one thing Sáranassë was not, by any means, was amused.

My Tûr,

This letter more fully describes Istuileth of the Woodland Realm, and why I think you ought to take her with you on your journey.

After her night in the Hammer Hall, which at the very least did her no harm, Manadhlaer had been whisked around the Vale to a dizzying variety of safe-houses. This bright, bright morning, Manadhlaer had taken her breakfast in the Hall of the Order of the Fountain. Where Hammer Hall had smelled like a soldier's armpit directly after a battle, despite the most heroic efforts of Lieutenant Ancalassë, Fountain currently smelled like -- well, soap, and lots of it.

Arradril of the Order of the Arrow hooked a finger into the collar of her immaculate tabard, as though it were too tight. It had in fact been made to measure, to drape perfectly over the reinforced gambeson that Arrows wore in order to creep about the forest in silence. But Captain Sáranassë was, of late, insisting on visibility -- at least part of the time. So Arradril wore the indigo, inspired by Gondolin's House of the Swallow, and bore herself gravely when within the Vale. Most of the time.

Diary, I tell you truly, never have I wanted Lord Tindir's steadying hand more than I do now. I am no military commander, but a mere shipwright's daughter, steered by fate to these shores. Tindir is overly silent and reveals nothing of his plans until he springs them upon us, but he is not wrong. I have begged Himwen to send no message, for his plans must succeed. He must not fail in his current mission. Indeed, I deem no raven could reach him.

Dear Diary,

I pressed the key to Themodir's house into the wide hand of a very surprised Dwarf fellow named Grunngi. In the course of events, it was decided that we would bring Grunngi back with us from Hrimbarg, for no good could come of the miserable life he was leading there with his perpetually angry cousin. (Some mystery surrounds the cousin, as it does everything lately.)

Diary, it is ridiculous.

Any other order that lost people in such a careless and rapid manner would be disbanded. Himwen at least keeps a tight rein on her soldiers of the Fountain, even if she yells at them a bit much. (Poor Nandutiriel! She probably saved Elloen's life, albeit in a grossly roundabout manner.)

But two Hammerites in five years only -- five turns of the seasons. To face each dawn without my only love is one difficulty, but to face summer this year without Daegond eating my flowers -- that was simply too much on top of the other loss.