Lósengriol

In the middle of trying to sort out preparations for the next leg of the journey, the Elves are surprised to meet one of the very Shire-folk they have been seeking -- a friendly and polite little fellow named Poscoad with an unusually dapper hat. Unfortunately, he also has a talent for getting lost: he is looking for some place called Herne. Man-towns are not Gaerondil's specialty, but she has a try at finding the place on the map, and concludes it must be somewhere to the south.

As the Elves converse with their new Dwarf friend, a small crowd begins to gather -- Men, mostly, but also another Elf, who says little but watches the goings-on with evident interest. Branalph and Gaerondil are mostly interested in refilling the water-skins -- not without a grumble or three from the latter about the dryness of the Lone-lands -- and seeing what fresh food might be available for trade. Hamadmachor, being the forward-looking sort, wants to ensure the group's passage around the Mannish town of Bree and through the many brigands on the Great East Road.

Arriving at the ruined fortress in the Lone-lands, Gaerondil and Melumatyar discover that Glorfingwë has already made a friend -- a mysterious Dwarrow who introdusces himself as Dzbog. In typical fashion, Glorfingwë has already begun work repairing the handle of the fellow's mug. The two fall into a surprisingly deep conversation about wine and ale, and by the time the Elves are ready to depart, they have made a fast friend.

When one plans a journey, one must have maps. But do they hold the right information? Manadhlaer finds the index to her atlas completely unhelpful when it comes to a tiny, pastoral corner of Middle-earth. There is plenty of physical geography, but no political geography, and the Elves do not quite know whom to ask about the herb-lore they seek.

Lirisseya, having consulted one of the most ancient tomes of herb-lore in Master Elrond's library and then obtained a brief personal audience with him, now strongly believes the house needs to undertake a journey to seek an entirely different sort of counsel about the plant. Members of the House begin making plans, but Manadhlaer stops them, having something to say first: Melumatyar, having served the House faithfully and with distinction, has earned a promotion!

Members of Lósengriol gather and enjoy a bit of wine in advance of Lirisseya's revelations about her research into the mysterious flower.

Having delivered the second package to the guards at Hrimbarg, with a second copy of the instructions for use of the poison-antidote, the friends realize it is wiser to wait out the night before striking out on the long journey back to Imladris. Filegris has a skin of wine; Menelamdir has a fable about a helpful woodpecker; and Glorfingwë, rather unusually, has a fully strung musical instrument wrapped in his pack. He plays a bit but shortly turns it over to Filegris, who has spent many a long night before in company who required morale.

The Elves of Imladris pause for a moment in the courtyard of Hrimbarg, feeling safer within the confines of its courtyard. Even the stabled beasts are a welcome sight.