Council

And so I did continue speaking.  ‘Verily must we strike against him, lest he destroy the entire world.’

‘I say we go to war!’ cried Prince Imrahil, who was a very tall man and loved to fight, broad and mighty even as an auroch.¹  ‘Show that rotten Sauron what’s coming for him!’

Valgalin I is one of the few Frithdalian lords whose lives are chronicled in great detail: his own, one of controversy, strife, and infighting.

The vale was quiet as it usually was.

The sun was slowly rising, lighting the upper half of the Homely House. This was what Faorie could see as she rode into Imladris with Thendryt's journal stored into Ebrail's left satchel. Slowing down, she crossed the vine draped bridge of Rivendell, shifting her gaze across the landscape.

Back in Bree, Avalong led her motley recruits to the Mess Hall to discuss the terms of their alliance with the Council of the Red Dragon.  The Council seemed like a well-organized troupe of soldiers, dressed in respective hauberks and matching capes.  Their leader held an heir of pride and respect as he introduced his elfin mate, who’s elegant beauty seemed to humble the rest of the elves of the Sworn Wanderers who had arrived in their normal traveling attire.  Even Lefrinu felt out of place in the Council’s presence.

"Ride to war, Daerundros! Ride! Fly!"
Stunned and surprised, I gazed around myself to see a figure seated on a chair. A fireplace chimed happily behind her, and the walls were covered in a pleasant green color, like the forest. She stood up from her odd seating position and straightened herself, dusting off a few stray specks of dirt that had gotten into her clothes. The chair slowly turned to Daerundros, and within it, was an odd... something...