Estarfin

He sat quietly in the wide hall; his dark eyes surveying the scene in front of him. A large gathering was taking place, although his presence in it was coincidence rather than planned participation. A feast had been prepared and mounds of food, bottles, flagons and glasses of liquid stood upon the groaning tables. The fires of the hall had been lit, and the sounds of musicians warming up and preparing to play filled the air with a delightful sense of anticipation. It had been too long since his heart had been gladdened so, and such magnificent company eased his troubled thoughts.

A poem read to Estarfin by his father:

He fumbled with the silver and emerald clasp, cursing quietly as it kept slipping from his fingers and coming undone despite his best efforts. In frustration he shrugged the dark green silk and black velvet striped arming jacket off of his shoulders and sighed; looking at the armour pieces carefully laid on the table before him reminded him of his own weakness. A warrior that can no longer dress himself for battle is not fit to wear such armour.

To the Lord Ambassador of Bar-en-Vanimar Parnard,

He glanced at the slumbering figures again. The moonlight was not bright enough through the clouds to show the disappointment on his face.

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.