Hawke

An excerpt taken from the memoirs of Aradil, an Elf of the Avorrim:

There are those among my kin with the patience to observe the steady changing of the tides and the passing of uneventful days. They gracefully accept this lonely exile without question: Lord Círdan commanded us, and we obey, hidden in caverns along the shore within easy distance of the ruins of once-beautiful Edhellond. 

Xanderian woke from her sleep with a start, the Chamber of Stars silent and dark around her. She cast aside the silken sheets in the moonlight with a violent flourish, eyes wild, but there was no denying the truth…she was still alone in the large bed, her face wet with tears.

It had been a dream. Just a dream. One of so many. A dream forged from a memory.

     At first there was only darkness, and pain so powerful that his mind shrank from it, allowing the waves to carry him away to safety, back to the ebb and flow of nothingness.

     The tide turned. The pain seemed gradually less unbearable: he became aware of soft light, of voices like music. The sound of water was not only in his mind...

(( The title is a nod to the song "Carry On My Wayward Son" by the band Kansas, and that is a good companion to this piece. Character death ahead. ))

The following details the appearance and content of the package given to Finchley by Cesistya for her journey to Gondor. The package consists of three items: an Itinerary, a Linen Letter, and a Red Letter.

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(( Might delete later. >.> ))

A letter written on fine Elven parchment, sent from Rivendell by carrier hawk. The penmanship is steady but not especially fine, and the spelling is mostly correct...

Dear

Dearest?

To Finchley,

(( Written using emotes from in-game))

It was by no means late yet but Bree-town and its streets were quiet, a more and more common occurance during the winter months. The yellow light of candles and lanterns burned in the windows as most of the town's inhabitants cloistered themselves in their warm homes or the inn. The only foot traffic to be seen was coming from the North Gate and moving along the road leading to the Prancing Pony as weary travelers and frost-bitten tradesmen hurried towards the promise of warm fires and warming drinks.

After standing there for a second or two more, she simply walked past the two without a word. She had not the wherewithal to address the situation yet.
She quietly asked Barliman for a bucket in which to put the glass shards from her shattered wineglass.