Illuvarion

Tolmen awoke on a stone bench in a dark corner of the hall of fire, the hall empty aside from the dying embers of the fire even the ever present Gilfiniel and Sogadan had sought their beds.

Tolmen finds Silwe at the doors of Imladris "Ah cousin, I've been searching for you, We should leave on an expedition, I also have something for you, from a little trip away of my own"
Silwe tilts his head. "Oh? Where did you go? I have been so busy I have not been able to keep up with anyone or anything."
Tolmen smiling produces a leather pouch with a small heavy object inside, 'South cousin, I went south..'
Tolmen tosses the pouch to Silwe who deftly catches it. "Hff, this is heavy." He opens it to peer inside.

Tolmen was as usual sitting his accustomed place in the hall of fire plying his accustomed trade of insulting anyone who approached him without due deference and drinking the finest vintages of master Sogadan who alternately glowered and cowered before his gaze.

My beloved liege,

I wanted to tell you of my dream -- I dreamed of Themodir once more.

But first, I will report that I have tried the corn beverage on hir Silwë and hir Tolmen, who are both long-lived Noldor of good constitution. (Tuilerie and Ailinwen were also nearby, but Tuilerie never takes strong drink, and Ailinwen was perhaps too intelligent to try it.)

Daeruth felt as though she had become useful again, since being ostracised for mushroom picking and accused of treasure seeking in some ruins that scout Filegris asked her to stay away from, Hiril Tingruviel had requested she attend Lady Ealendil and Master Maedhrathin at the old school of Mirobel, the pair were wed and Daeruth let them chatter about inconsequential things while she studied the scraps of old knowledge for anything of interest, seperating to cover more area each spent time making notes, moving further into what she assumed was an old master's room or assembly h

The day comes that Tolmen arranges with Illuvarion Silwë to gift the heirlooms collected from the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil  to Cirtamir.

Dear journal, I had meant to write to you from a calmer place, and a more rested mind.

Bíld son of Bóurr to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor, greeting and all filial love.

Restless, the Elf looks up from her carving and towards the west, to the fading sunlight in a sky of vibrant pinks and oranges.  After a long moment, the bow stave, unfinished, is placed aside with a sigh as she turns away from it and towards a table, on which rests an untouched glass of wine, a candle, and a little, long-neglected notebook, bound in leather and fastened with a cord.  After a long, thoughtful sip and a glance over the mountains in the distance, Nínimil picks up both the boo