Imladris

The leather grip is wearing away under my hand. I shift my grip slightly, making a note to see about getting the wrap replaced before we leave. I stand motionless for a moment, closing my eyes and recalling darkness and stone, shouts, and learned responses. Then I begin to move.

Orithil, Laer, T.A. 3018

So as I scribble down my second page, I think of how Minyelaire's "success" had been nothing more but a mask of hurt and confusion, the first foot of our Journey to Harad already sullied by burden and sorrow.

Entering the hall, Fervain casts her gaze over those present.

The journey from Greenwood, or Taur-nu-Fuin as outsiders may call it,  had been long and arduous, her body aches and her mind hungers for interaction with those of Elven kind.

Tentatively, she continues to walk toward the elves gathered, they all stand close to several overly large fire places near to the back of the hall.

Truly, there was no more collection of yore that was vaster than those found in Imladris! To this Indralas had submitted defeat, even as he had boisterously claimed his knowledge would remain unsurpassed by all his peers here, in the valley where no shadows lie.

Indeed, even as he had greeted the hauntingly quiet library – no words were exchanged in the greeting, of course, nothing but a nod of recognition – there were nothing that could deter him in the endeavour to categorize, arrange, submerge and feast upon every cover, every leaf, every parchment, every book.