Vanimar

Of Numenorean ruins

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Diary

After several days of traveling through mostly uninhabited lands we came upon some old ruins of men, the scouts reported they were occupied by brigands or whatnot, no match for our fine soldiers!. Our Lord Tindir led the charge and soon they had control of the buildings giving me time to examine what turned out to be some Numenorean architecture and statuary, crude by elven standards, but still a welcome distraction to the plodding boredom of travel. Sadly i was too busy sketching and didn't realise the guards had moved to a higher location.

The night before....

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

Daeruth is sitting at her desk waiting with her usual infinite patience for the Hiril Tingruviel to arrive at the Hall of the Pillar, the apprentice that had taken her note and told Daeruth the meeting time had made themselves scarce knowing that eavesdropping on the conversations of Daeruth could end badly.

Return home...

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

One hour before dawn. She still had not slept a wink. The fire had gone out long before, and the sky had started to turn dark grey, then blueish grey and ever lighter. The birds were almost about to wake. And she had finally left her office to pack her belongings. Always at the last minute. But there were other important things to do before.

When tomorrow comes...

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

Rain slowly, gently falling onto the rooftop. Drip, drip, drip... the window was kept wide open in the hopes of at least a slight breeze, but there would be no wind in sight on this hot summers eve. It was dark already, as if someone had put a warm, wet blanket all over Imladris. From the window, one could see some lanterns still lit along the paths up to the Last Homely House. She would note guests coming and going long into the night. Some of the kin were most likely gathered in the Hall of Fire again, enjoying light music and good wine. Like most nights, those delights were denied her.

The triumph call of the day and the shout in the night

Author: 
Turuviel

The story of the remaking of weapons and persons.

Song book : written or gathered

Author: 
Iseril Naergon

The notebook contains songs written by Naergon or heard by him in different circumstances. He sings rarely but holds them dear to his heart.

Dear Diary: I Never Thought I'd Need So Many People

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Diary

Dearest Themodir --

Do you remember that day, where you are now? It is five years since that terrible day. So little time, merely an eyeblink. 

I remember it exactly. I do not know why, but I was wearing a white dress with matching roses in my hair. I think I must have been looking forward to your arrival home from the mountain assignment. A simple supply run, you said. 

Dear Diary: Complication upon Complication

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Diary

Dear Diary,

Well, the meeting turned into a great shambles of speculation, and then it turned into an expedition. Not back to Eregion, to try the restored keys provided by Earnio, but to the Blue Mountains, and indeed the doors of Thorin's Halls.

Tingruviel asked to make the diplomatic request for information in person. I could hardly deny her this -- she knows best about what approaches work, and we need this to work.

Growing stronger claws - The Smith remembers (II)

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

The sounds of hammers against anvils rang like silver bells across the forges of Imlad Gelair. The hidden valley within the hidden valley, a haven within a haven, a dream within a dream; such was Imlad Gelair, and it was here that Earnio had been allowed to set up his workshop during his stay in Rivendell. Much had happened since first he set foot upon the lush, green grass outside the Last Homely House around a year ago, his first visit to Rivendell for many, many years.

A test of spear, or wisdom?

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

Nandutiriel did not need to keep watch over her sleeping comrades -- not even the gentle ones, híril Norliriel and the mysterious Elloen -- for plenty of sentinels with bows, even at night, peered down hawkishly and roamed the stones of Echad Mirobel.

Yet she could no more have rested than she could have flapped her arms and flown like Elloen's beautiful white eagle. Her mind was awhirl.

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