Curulinn

It had been a long and tiring year for both Manadhlaer and Curulinn, including, on one memorable occasion, both simultaneously. Snow lay on the High Moor, and while it seemed like autumn yet lingered in the Vale, Turuhalmë had just passed. Someone had gifted the healers a large supply of the sweet biscuits charmingly referred to as "cookies" by i Pheriannaith, the Shire-folk, and Manadhlaer's wine-cellar was legendary -- if somewhat diminished since Lord Anglachelm had spent a night in it.

My dear Merenellon,

I have only just received this letter by courier -- I have learned from the earlier incident with the postal courier, you will be glad to hear, and now no matter how much little Daegond barks, I have my mail brought to Pillar Hall instead. Cats do have a way of treating strangers with a sublime indifference of which my poor little anger-sprout is simply incapable.

Greetings Lady Himwen,

There isn't much time so I'll get to the point as fast as I can. I am staying around Sarmëtecil for the time being, unless you have other orders for me.

Manadhlaer awoke in the dark, in more than one way.

Someone had thoughtfully tucked her diary under her arm. Had she a quill and ink? They must be in her pouch, if she could find it.

With infinite care, she put her feet -- disguised, as she had thought, in mismatched boots, which suited her sloppy grey tunic -- on the floor. She groped around a bit, head pounding; she tried not to move more quickly, lest she vomit again.

Arradril of the Order of the Arrow hooked a finger into the collar of her immaculate tabard, as though it were too tight. It had in fact been made to measure, to drape perfectly over the reinforced gambeson that Arrows wore in order to creep about the forest in silence. But Captain Sáranassë was, of late, insisting on visibility -- at least part of the time. So Arradril wore the indigo, inspired by Gondolin's House of the Swallow, and bore herself gravely when within the Vale. Most of the time.

This diary page is splotched with tea along one edge, but is perfectly legible.

Well, Diary? Can you believe it? I shall finally be having some company who is not coming to my door with an arrow in them, or bone sticking out of them, or spitting blood. That is, if he actually forgives me. I do hope the boy forgives me. Not everybody of my own kindred has had the sort of life I have led, and I need to be mindful of that. 

Hiril Manadhlaer:

As you requested, I have made a list of books from the chest of tomes discovered by Daeruth -- may she emerge from her icy curse! --  under Thorin's Halls that have absolutely nothing to do with Dwarrow-gems. Some of them are about gems, but written in a didactic mode by our own hir Silwë. But none of what we have read cover to cover so far has anything to do with the topics you are searching for. We have, of course, more tomes yet to go. 

Not at all relevant:

My dear Telpenaro,

I have asked what scholars I could find -- minus Sorontar, who is off doing falconry things, and Anglador, who rests by day so that he can observe Varda's jewels at night -- and we all agreed we could give a home to one of the kittens when they are ready to leave Mintel's side.

After several days of traveling through mostly uninhabited lands we came upon some old ruins of men, the scouts reported they were occupied by brigands or whatnot, no match for our fine soldiers!. Our Lord Tindir led the charge and soon they had control of the buildings giving me time to examine what turned out to be some Numenorean architecture and statuary, crude by elven standards, but still a welcome distraction to the plodding boredom of travel. Sadly i was too busy sketching and didn't realise the guards had moved to a higher location.

One evening last Ethuil, a few of elves present in Imladris, gather in the Pillar Hall of Bar-en-Vanimar, for a night of Narn-i-Eldhrim, where those who are present may share memories or stories from the past.

Apart from Tuilerie, others were present as well, such as Camalagos, recently arrived from Lindon, Curulinn, and Aralirion.

Each one share in turn their story or memories, and then suddenly Tuilerie gathers her courage.