Veryacano

In the Hall of Fire elves gathered, summoned by their Lord Anglachelm.

The stories are never enough.

No matter how famous people are, their skill can be only verified and experienced in a personal encounter.

I am laying down in the Imladris Valley, enjoying the colours of the dusk. They do not call this place as a refuge or sanctuary for no reason, each time the leaves rest in the lack of wind and sun sets down like this, I truly feel peaceful. From far off I hear music, quiet but clear.

I walked on the road away from Last Homely House, and my feet started to climb a small hill, or rather towards a cairn, the cairn of Themodir. Elvealin has told me what had happened in his funeral, and I wanted to pay my own respects.

Well beyond the end of the Third Age and the passing of most Elves into the West, this ballad was carefully preserved and sung by Elf-friends in all corners of Middle-earth, some say even the Shire. It was carried by the best of the minstrels home to Valinor, where even Nienna, whose tears of compassion constantly flow, is rumoured to believe it is a worthy expression of grief. The authorship of the song is unknown, but some believe it was originally written by Manadhlaer herself, at least in part.

Ballad of Themodir's Fall

No prisoners! No mercy!

“Annunghil, Ráolor, come with me!”

The report is written in Quenya, rendered in graceful yet accurate tengwar.

To Lord Veryacano,
honoured Lord of the Order of Hammer

Earlier today, a woman of the Second-born stumbled upon our encampment. As she was unarmed, thinly clad, and wounded, I judged her to be of no threat and allowed her to rest inside this outpost for a while.

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