Veryacano

In the Hall of Fire elves gathered, summoned by their Lord Anglachelm.

The stories are never enough.

No matter how famous people are, their skill can be only verified and experienced in a personal encounter.

I am laying down in the Imladris Valley, enjoying the colours of the dusk. They do not call this place as a refuge or sanctuary for no reason, each time the leaves rest in the lack of wind and sun sets down like this, I truly feel peaceful. From far off I hear music, quiet but clear.

I walked on the road away from Last Homely House, and my feet started to climb a small hill, or rather towards a cairn, the cairn of Themodir. Elvealin has told me what had happened in his funeral, and I wanted to pay my own respects.

No prisoners! No mercy!

“Annunghil, Ráolor, come with me!”

The report is written in Quenya, rendered in graceful yet accurate tengwar.

To Lord Veryacano,
honoured Lord of the Order of Hammer

Earlier today, a woman of the Second-born stumbled upon our encampment. As she was unarmed, thinly clad, and wounded, I judged her to be of no threat and allowed her to rest inside this outpost for a while.

He glanced at the slumbering figures again. The moonlight was not bright enough through the clouds to show the disappointment on his face.

Parnard sat on a fallen tree, feet dangling, the pointed tips of his boots tracing strange figures in the snow.

"That accursed Man is already causing problems, and we are not even deep into the mountains," he said in Quenya softly to Limiriel .

"What kind of problems?"