Dovirien

I look out from my window, watching well

The sunset as it paints the sky aflame,

And limns the seashore and each foaming swell

Of waves once blue, now red as blushing shame. 

For I have seen the crumbling age of stone

When living and once-living things are gone

The rot has claimed them, now the rock alone

Shall lose its carvèd forms of star and swan. 

The blooms once bright with color soon shall fade,

The leaves once green and gleaming fall away. 

This entry is found scribbled in the margins of Lômizimril's research notes, the neat but rather small Tengwar hand written in slightly smudged ink on one of the various scrolls she carries in a case in her pack. A few lines seem to have neat, straight lines drawn through them, as if they were deliberated and later marked as invalid for one reason or another, like chiseling away the blocky imperfections of a half-finished sculpture. 

Lomizimril of Dol Amroth sat in her room in the Warhorse inn, resting her bruises against a pillow. A large tome entitled Legendary Blades of the Elder Days sat atop the bedspread beside her, and candlelight cast dancing shadows over its pages. She continued taking notes with a slender stick of charcoal, but despite her focus, she was not entirely oblivious to her surroundings. She had a set of fine clothes folded nearby, wanting to look presentable in the presence of the mysterious, important guest who she had heard was coming...

Leaning against a high wall built by Men in centuries past, Lômizimril considered her options. What was she thinking, walking up to the Red Pass and declaring herself as Mornalpheth of Dol Amroth, then declaring herself later on as Dovirien?