Lothelian

He glanced sidelong at Dolthafaer, who shrugged slightly, stepping back a pace to afford more privacy. Always discreet, the Arrow Lord, thought Parnard.

A dark shadow of fury sat perched in Luthelian's usual seat amongst the eaves above her sister's workbench. The sound of hammers beating against the anvil chimed the impending hour when the shadow would rise from its place as a raging inferno. Though her caramel hair lay straight and delicately around her face in the semblance of peace, the tight knit of her brows and the furious scratching of her quill betrayed her tempestuous mood.

A crisp breeze wafted up to the higher branches of the tree where Luthelian sat with her legs bent and a leather-bound notebook on her lap. This particular notebook looked as common as any other – no fancy linings or gilt edges – but the owner had taken the liberty to sketch upon its leather surface, all sorts of unrelated images and elvish in all possible directions, that it was quite impossible to guess which cover was the front and in which direction the notebook should be held.

Today I received word that shipment of the ore arrived, and I would myself see what my lordship’s money has bought, and all in order. Venturing to the forges I saw a crowd of people from the house gathered round a pile of crates.

Lothelian swung the door open and slid into her seat at the dinner table, smiling delightedly as delicious smells wafted out of the kitchen. She could see Ada arranging some food on a platter, and Nana slicing bread in the adjourning room. Folding her napkin neatly upon her plate, she looked around for any sign of her older sister, fiddling absently with the pale pink quartz crystal in her pocket.