Blida

Somewhere above the hushed rushing of the underground river, and the faint flow of music throughout the Halls of Felegoth, a home settles once more into quiet.  The embers of the hearth have long been quieted, and the grand dining table – already dusty with disuse from its owner’s continued comings and goings – is scene to a last round of hasty packing.

[This letter is mostly written in Westron using cursive cirth, a handsome upright hand that is both elegant and crisply legible. It is also… substantially long.]

Bíld son of Bóurr to Híril Nardhwen greeting!

Over tall snowy mountains raking teeth against the sky, through craggy valleys tangled with trees, the raven flies. Over yellow hills and plains flies Pock, till the green of the Chetwood erupts at the border of Bree-land. The raven’s westmost destination is just past those trees — a shabby house in a little village, marked by a far less shabby, stone-reinforced windmill, sweeps turning vigorously in the stout Spring breeze.

Over lake long and forest vast, a raven with two white feathers flies. Every wingbeat, those feathers flash, a bright gleam moving among stone and tree. In the past, it made the raven a little nervous, worried those unusual feathers would draw the eye of predators or worse. 

It was not announced to the Mountain when it happened, and so the crowd that gathered in the plaza was at first only small. Even so, when the doors of the grand home built high on a terrace above flew fully open, bend towards them did the attention of most neighbors standing on the stone walkways around; and when three Dwarves exited, the two flanking in robes brilliant enough but the one between them shining like a polished lapis set in silver and gold, the attention of all the neighbors followed them.

As with so much of Erebor, the ability of the Dwarves to draw light into every corner of their home might surprise the unexpecting traveller.  However deep below the mountain one finds themselves, light filters down, suffusing the tunnels with illumination.  In a small, relatively quiet corner of a workshop, that light rests peacefully on staves and slivers of silver-grey wood, giving the scene a sense of calm that belies how busy it was only moments ago.  All the

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.

Written in collaboration with the players of all characters involved!

Few among even the Tawarwaith called it Greenwood still, the forest that the caravan crossed.

Bíld son of Bóurr to Miss Liffey in Newharrow, Bree-land, greeting from the Vales of the Anduin!