Sogadan

“Can we go around?” asked Estarfin.

The hour was late and the hall quiet, except for the fire crackling in the fireplace and the rustling of dry leaves against the windows, heralding autumn rains. The dinner plates were cleared from the table and had been replaced by several large maps.

The wood-elf Parnard had hardly ceased speaking when Estarfin urged his warhorse Gilastor forward, and Swan-Hoof followed closely out of the stable, both horses made excited by the Noldo’s fierce temper. They made their way down the hill, when suddenly in their path stepped Danel, and planted herself in the middle of the road. 

I run ahead in my retelling of events. Something came to pass more recently that the tale of our wanderings East of the Hithaeglir need wait a little. 

For a moment, memories arose…

More than six thousand years ago, in the age of the Noldor, they had dwelled in Beleriand, the mighty realm between the Ered Luin and the grinding ice of the Helcaraxë.

Why all this to-do? he asked Dolthafaer.

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

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.”