Estarfin

These were Lord Anglachelm's judgments: that Estarfin should be honored, and not be cast out as some of us feared; he shall be ably employed, and not lose his place and station in the House.

It was late, and the fireflies were winking love by the time she arrived, but she saw a light shining within. She rang the bell and the door quickly opened.

“Does the Lord Ambassador lodge here?” asked Ruineth.

“Sometimes,” replied Losshell. “He keeps a room here, and I see to it, and take in his letters for him.”

“Is he here now?”
“No. He has not been here since the morning.”

The bowstring snapped and the arrow whistled through the air until it hit the target with a satisfying thunk.  Dolthafaer barely noted its position near the center before he knocked another to the string. 

It had been a day since the hearing of Estarfin by the Cauns of Vanimar for his disastrous foray into the Hithaeglir. 

All the day long doing work, writing over list after list by my own hand, because when Sorontar finished it, by mistake I laid hold of the inkpot and not the sandbox, and almost blotted out the accounts. This put Sorontar into a hurried sort of fit, and I grew worried for his sake, so I said I would copy it again for him.

((cf. Veryacano's report on Estarfin's hearing - for further context, refer to the chronicle "A Haughty Spirit Falls"))

Today Estarfin was summoned to speak before the Cauns regarding his deeds in the Hithaeglir, and his reasons therefore.

My Lord,

This day a Council meeting was held to hear an account of the actions of Estarfin, formerly Sergeant-at-Arms of the Order of the Hammer, so that we could hear what was done, and why it was done, and give our recommendations to Lord Anglachelm.

((This is a report written to Anglachelm, signed by Veryacano))

My Lord,

The hearing of Estarfin by the Cauns has taken place as you ordered. My impressions from Estarfin's account and the following discussions are:

Arriving at his chambers, Parnard found Estarfin sitting in his usual place, a deep arm-chair, staring at the fire. The room was fitted up in a style of elegant splendour, containing many fine pictures and a gilt bird cage, empty of any occupant. Parnard had come home one day to find his twittering songbird dead, and he had not the heart to get another, nor could he bring himself to remove the golden cage.