During her visits to the Pony, Lieve had become acquainted with Arlea and Lenwood Baywillow, both of whom worked at the Prancing Pony.

She had met up with her captain acquaintance again. They were sitting in front of the fire she liked so much and were engaged deep in conversation. She had told him a little about her life and how her parents disapproved of her staying at the Pony for any length of time. Watching him, Lieve finally dared to ask how he came by the scar on his face. His face clouded over and for a while she thought he would not answer. He suggested they find a more secluded spot to sit, so found a room in the back of the Pony.

Orlenne sits in her chair, a smug smile on her face as she writes the next entry, the quill scratching over the paper

War comes to Mirkwood, and Eregion.
The Lady of the Golden Wood sent word to her people and those of the Greenwood. It seems an offense is building there. The Malledhrim and many of the Laiquendi seem to already have left. Lord Elrond's halls are almost empty.
Yet other fronts are opening as well. The shadow is finally on the move...

Doron and I rode east to the haven of Esteldin. I do not like this place and I do not trust these mortal men, whether they truly are Dunedain or no.

After dusk I left and just outside the gates I met, quite by chance a lady, now know to me as Malliel.

She was strong and yet delicate a warden and protector of the weak and she wore the emblem of the Malledhrim.

Yet again, my mediation has been interrupted by the vision, a dream that I have had many times since leaving the wilderness. It is always the same, but what can it mean? My Father had the gift of foresight, but surely this is not a vision of things to come?

The golden leaves falling to the ground, with my fathers bow lying gently amongst them…

The face of a beautiful maiden, her dark hair, wet against her pale skin, her Silver-blue eyes that shimmer and as she rests her hand on my cheek, she begins to speak my name…

My father’s journal was found lying beside his bow, “Faradome”, near the east road through the Greenwood. The journal had been torn a sunder but the last page was still intact.

The script was in my father’s hand but had obviously been written in a hurry and lacked his usual flourish.

It read: