Ninimil

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.

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 tasted like mud.

The letter is neatly folded, the visible side only being labeled with "For Ninimil" in small script. It sits atop the heavy covers decorating a certain patron's bed, presumably having been left there while the room was empty. Once unfolded, the page shows a carefully written note, the handwriting hinting it was written by a scholarly type or someone who has sent one too many letters.

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

The works of Men will never cease to amaze me.

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.