sailing West

Reply to Estarfin

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

((A copy of Danel’s reply to Estarfin’s  A Final Letter? | The Laurelin Archives  ))

 

 

Estarfin, 

 

No Return to Cuivienan?

Author: 
The writings of Estarfin and Carnifinde (Danel) of Thargelion in the Third Age. Also of their mutual friend, Parnard.

Memories, travel accounts, letters, hope for the future of two First Age Noldor and an unlikely but very close Silvan friend. 

 

Naurloth, Naurloth...

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Poetry

Sat upon the docks, the elleth pulled an old piece of parchment from the folds of her robe. She was surprised somebody still cared about the tradition of the lanterns. On the parchment was written short poem, half of it seemingly ripped away; lost lore of a time when the name Edhellond meant a living, breathing community and not a pile of rubble. With voice no louder than a whisper she recited, as the flower-lanterns made their way down the river:

"Anthon i narn hen estel a threvaded anden

Naurloth

What type of content is this?: 
Screenshot: General screen

"Naurloth, Naurloth

I glawar dhîn mhîr mhin faer nîn..."

 

"Fireflower, Fireflower

Your light is a treasure in my soul..."

Narquelion

Author: 

Our folk are in the autumn of our days here. For those who choose to remain, I hope it is yet a long and glorious autumn. But winter is inevitable. It is almost time for all the Noldor who will, to depart.

Not yet time to take ship?

What type of content is this?: 
Screenshot: General screen

I had believed this patrol would be the decisive one. I would return to Forlond having found nothing, no sign of he for whom I searched. I would have fulfilled any duty, and more. Time to take ship, I had thought.

And now...that another senses the growing discord in a similar manner to me makes me wonder. 

Not yet! My time in these lands is not yet over.

The White Ships

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Poetry

There I sat and watched,
as the White Ships bare them hence.
I stood and wept, one so wretched,
left now alone, with no fence.

The White Ships bore them hence.

A seagull did fly upon the wing
its mournful cries tinged with darkness.
I felt for a time that my heart could not sing,
but still I knew my ending would be no less.

The White Ships bore them hence.

With a wild and insatiable heart did I remain,
now to explore, to learn, to fight

Of Fingolrin and His Call to the Sea

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Diary

Like the previous diary entry, Manadhlaer has written this one in a somewhat agitated hand; one might be excused for thinking a spot on this page was a tear.

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