Cedwyn

It’s a week now since we returned from the small hunting trip with Dimheim and the Fist of Steel Tournament. Both went very well. I think that my tournament was the only fighting tournament that was concerned for the participants’ welfare than any other in history.

[The script is the same as before. Again, each log is a new page, and again there is another torn introductory note that reads:]
 

We have been speaking plenty in person, now that you have recovered from your fever, so much of the stuff I would otherwise write in a report to you feels redundant at best. Still, I have found that there is much to say.

Look at this! I haven't seen this journal for years. How time passes. Now what to write, well, I am already writing but nothing of importance. Let's try and write about the latest happenings. How do I start? From  the start. Let's see...

[The script is, overall, ostentatious. Overtly curly and perhaps hard to read, and it’s almost as if the author was already wishing to write his next sentence before the first had finished. With each log, a fresh page begins, but lying on top of them all is a torn slip of parchment that reads:]

The dark-haired Avari reclined on a small, red couch, inside Tham Send. He had a cool glass of wine in his left hand, his smallest finger sticking outwards whilst the rest of his fingers curl around the glass. In his right hand, resting on top of his fingers, is a book. The writing of it curls in the lettering of Quenya. He would take a sip from the glass of wine, placing it down on a small table in reach, using his free hand to turn the page of the book, then picking up the glass of wine again to take a sip, his eyes moving down the page as he reads the words.

It had been an hour since the group returned from the vault.