Sogadan

Next morning I returned to the Hall of Fire and met with a very hearty welcome. Sogadan had reserved some cake from the previous night's table, and he observed it would be more plentiful had I visited him sooner, but I did my duty to what was left.

"Well, Sogadan,” said the Lord Ambassador. “What do you think I have inside this box?”

“Your coin to pay off your wine bill, I hope! You have let it run up again."

Gwanûr,

Gwanûr,

“And what of the wine order?” asked Parnard.

“It arrived, complete and unbroken. You are drinking some of it now.”

Last night, there was much talk in the Hall of a band of Men encamped outside the Gate of the Valley, and some thought they were refugees, fleeing the darkness, and others thought them a group of roving bandits, and some thought they might be supplicants, messengers sent to ask for aid from Lord Elrond: arms, or stores of food, though I thought this year’s harvest a bountiful one, as there was plenty of rain and sunshine, in proper amounts.

Meanwhile, as Belethoriel and his men continued their search for the missing Themodir, Parnard kept himself very busy.

"It was a very close contest," remarked the Lord Ambassador. He had returned to his usual place in the Hall of Fire, beside Sogadan, and was of the proud belief that he had averted a national catastrophe.

It is over. Darkness fills the hall, tempered by the light from the huge fireplaces. Sogadan mutters something and scowls at her, refusing to be cowed by Cachunir's reproachful looks. She stares into the gloomy depths of her wine, ignoring the vintner and scholar alike. Eventually, their third companion, still clad in his uniform, draped in Elrond's colours, speaks.

“When do you leave?”

“Well? Were you able to find him?” asked Sogadan.

Parnard shook his head. “Pour out the wine.”

The Vintner of Imladris was a sleek little elf, and knowing well the tastes of his clientele, poured out a tall glass of Dorwinion Red, and pushed it across the polished marble table.