Eilanneth

'Darling! Watch out, you cannot just pack your papers underneath the lute! And watch the crockery!' Eilanneth hastily tried to prevent her dear husband from shoving everything in the same saddlebag, effectively making the poor packhorse lean dangerously to one side. She carefully checked the state of the teapot and the cups she was bringing.

Well, Diary, a thorough search of Themodir's house -- I must get in there to clean it more often; the drake trophies in particular look as if they were slain by dust -- revealed none of the missing ledger pages. I had not really thought they might be there, but every possibility must be examined. I suppose that I wanted his guidance, even the faint scent of his presence -- the imprint of his fëa upon the things he handled and touched.

Manadhlaer sighed, not for the first time that day, or that hour. She dipped her quill and made another attempt:

It has been widely known since the Elder Days that the sap of an unopened poppy...

Instantly she stopped and put a line through her words. "If it has been widely known," she said aloud, "why write it at all?" One of her delicate silken slippers, as light as an Elfling's first breath, had already gone. She kicked the other against the far wall of her office and began again.

This diary page is splotched with tea along one edge, but is perfectly legible.

Well, Diary? Can you believe it? I shall finally be having some company who is not coming to my door with an arrow in them, or bone sticking out of them, or spitting blood. That is, if he actually forgives me. I do hope the boy forgives me. Not everybody of my own kindred has had the sort of life I have led, and I need to be mindful of that. 

This letter is as pretty as its predecessor, but appears to be in a different hand, likely Manadhlaer's own. It is more of a silken parasol than a formal linen napkin this time.

Angrinc
Guest Houses, Imladris

Esteemed Angrinc:

I am terribly embarrassed to admit this, but I have at least one terrified witness to this event.

I was in the garden, with my dog poking about shrew-burrows and my swan stalking about ominously in the background -- even after I had told her to go and play in the stream. Imagine.

"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.

Himwen turned around. The round room was mildly lit with candles and the fireplace harboured a mellow fire. The flames licked the bottom of a black small cauldron as though it hungered for the contents puttering above.

She looked at the chair next to the fireplace. He had been resting in it for a long time, but thankfully he was now walking around the valley. She sighed of relief, thankful that he was on the mend. The wounds had been great, but he was a hardy soldier. An ellon with determination to survive.

"Meleth nin!" Eilanneth exclaimed when she saw his apparition locked into a battle with the letterbox in the centre of Rivendell. Often a meeting point for friends and kindred but today, a wrestlers match between the selfappointed bard of Vanimar and what could have been misinterpreted as a great monster fighting to get the treasures Lindaire was grappling for. Eilanneth blinked as she realised he would very likely spend an evening writing such an ode to his adventure nonetheless.