Oldgrove

Meduion's lips curled into a grin, looking at Archer's gift to the lady Estenthel of a toy wooden horse with amusement. No practical value, to be sure, but then again, there was no practical value in many of his own arts, with words and books and old kingdoms long past. Still, he thought to himself, he knew just how to offer a gift of his own. The scholar leant back on his hands, looking at the trees that lay upon the plains to the north, and drifted into thought... with typical cleverness, as well as a certain state of mind.

She had gone to Cardolan to seek out an old friend who’s wise words might help her but instead she found a host of her friends gathered with many others for what reason she could not fathom.  Amlarad, Oldgrove, Adunzil, Noruien.   Had she missed some summons?

Never did I believe that I would find myself comforted among the devices of the Enemy. But here we are, licking our wounds around a campfire among the Enemy's perch, and yet we quietly restrain our sense of triumph with grim thoughts of the coming trials. It's a sobering exercise. I sit here and write all that I can recall before my own unease and fatigue will lose them to sluggishness. 

Suilad, Hir Halbarad.

I apologize in delay before sending the first report. The  Eldar host has arrived at Lin Giliath in good order, though it is certain that the Enemy already knows of their coming. Impressive a sight though their waving banners and loud horn-calls might be; it can have done nothing but alert our enemies to their presence.

Well, ''there aint no use cryin' over split milk'' , tha's what my Gammer says. She aint usually getting a slap round her head from my Ma if she spills milk, though. My Ma's got a powerful slap. I usually ends up cryin'.