Maddoct

Leoffrith is trying not to pace. The ruins, kind of lonely and noble in their austerity, let in the sunshine of a lovely day, but there's no decorations beyond the stones; all the celebration is to happen elsewhere, after the ceremony. Leoffrith fidgets in his gold-bedecked tunic.
Taite hobbles over the sunlit grass, smiling as the weather whispers of coming spring. Demurely holding up the front of her skirt a little, she pauses when she sees Leoffrith, then nods in relief when he invites her in.

His youngest child to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor, fond and loving greeting, even if this time spectacularly tardy.

If I write that this month not much has to me happened here, it would be true enough. The state of my affairs is the same — I am hale and well, studying and practicing and drinking and making new acquaintances every day as I wait for the time of our caravan’s departure.

It is true also that my life shall from this point be never the same.

Maurr Bóurrul is neither an artist nor a crafter, as shocking an admission that is for any Dwarf to make. An armorsmith he is, supposedly, though even at the age of 100 not yet recognized as a master; that never bothered him, though, for as he'd readily tell any who asked, it was the axe that he considered his chief tool. The hammer was just a supplement to it, useful for banging out dents, very rarely cobbling together a whole new helmet for an accident-prone shield-brother.

Fortunately, pups don't take a lot of care, especially in the first few fortnights when their eyes aren't even open yet and they can't do much more than waddle and nurse. But that's also unfortunate, because tending the pups was the best part of Heriwulf's day.

His youngest child to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor greeting.

This letter I pen many weeks later than I ought to have, to my shame; I apologize profusely, but I will be consoled that my winter letters are like to pile up on the western side of the Misty Mountains regardless.

[This letter, delivered first to Maddoct with the intent he carry it on to Dimheim, consists of several sheets densely packed with small writing.

[From the direction of the Brandywine, a black shape flies over Bree-town... a rotund shape, it could be called, though with great offense given to its owner, Mänik of the Iron Hills, whose distinguished pedigree can be traced back to the first Rookery of Grór, he'd have you know.

Been a while where I weren't goin' so often to the Pony on account there was supper waitin' for me back home, now Lumina lives there with me, but she been away a little while now doin' some business of her own -- not sure what, maybe her healer work. So I'm back to having supper at the Pony most nights, and sometimes lunch too, and so I been seein' other folk, which has been nice.