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.
I did, however, find something interesting. As I paced, and Daegond snored in the corner -- he is getting so big at last, the dear little bear-trap -- my gaze fell upon Themodir's shelf of writings on military tactics. One book in particular was well thumbed, and a few observations from it seem to apply to our current situation and special friends:
If there are really parties encamped between the Bruinen and the Mitheithel, they must be getting supplies from somewhere. Should Captain Sáranassë be able to expand the reach of the Arrow just a bit, we may find out where, and cut them off. Likewise, the two factions have been communicating. That must happen no more.
Irregulars -- I am thinking here of Saereg and Redandir, for example -- may have a variety of special talents. If they can get into these encampments and destroy the food and drinking-water, for example... Remind me, dear Diary, to ask Quartermaster Golvagor what happened to all of that vitriol that was requested for the expedition. If it has not been used up, it might serve to damage the weapon-hoards arrayed against us.
We might also exploit the superstition of the southern group, and sow distrust of the northern ones and their sorcery. It will help to find out the clan affiliation of the younger prisoner, whose people often use animal-head carvings to represent their clan's guiding spirit. Either we must capture a few and defile them, or turn our irregulars into an acting-troupe, to convince them that we have the mightiest sorcery and the fiercest beast-spirit of them all. The robed ones will be more difficult, and perhaps the Lord of the Hammer and the Captain of the Fountain must meet them outwith the Bruinen in a sudden, nasty shock.
It is not, of course, as if there are no natural hazards. The Trollshaws, I regret to say, did not gain their name by accident. A single Olog wandering about at night might cause appropriate terror and diminishment of enemy forces... particularly if someone led one down from the Ettenmoors.
I dislike all this, Diary. I greatly dislike even thinking in such a fashion. I should very much like to sit about for a while, and tend my roses, and go and return Eilanneth's teapot. But no such respite seems to have put its mast above the horizon -- no, I write in error: I look forward to seeing the glorious circlet we commissioned for Lady Ealendil. That is a spark of joy and beauty, even as we stand in the eye of a storm.
Ai Themodir! You were too good for these shores, I suppose, but how I crave your wisdom at this hour! The strain is wearing on Elvealin. She hides it well, but I know her too thoroughly not to see a weariness upon her. And no wonder -- who would not feel so, when she had thought the matter more or less ended? Where is her closure?
But I get far, far ahead of myself, Diary. First we must talk to the girl.
