Lósengriol

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. 

Upon discovering that the seed-oil of the mystery flower eases Melumatyar's burns -- with Lirisseya still neck-deep in books in Elrond's library, looking for any clues to the greater meaning of this discovery -- the friends are delighted, although they realize that this is only the first step in truly putting the hardy little shrub to work. But why was Arradril compelled to look at it, to her detriment? Is it truly the omen of some greater good to come, and if so, what?

Melumatyar limped into the hall suffering from burns on his arm and leg: in the aftermath of Arradril's injury, he went chasing the goblins of the region and unexpectedly ran into some armed with fire-pots. Manadhlaer interrupts the discussion in progress to bathe his burns with infinite tenderness, and then coat them in a remedy she hastily snatched from a nearby table. As Glorfingwë lights a fire to warm Melumatyar, those assembled are pleased, if astonished, to watch the blistered red skin dry up and hurt less within half an hour's time.

Ulvoin warns the company of Elves to be wary of the Mammoths whilst lingering longer than the Dwarf would like in search for a rare flower. The Bull keeps his attention, and give him a good excuse not to search for whatever passes for rare flora these days.