Two figures sat in the flower-covered yard of the empty house. A hastily scribbled sign at the entrance signified the home had no one to call its master, but the two seemed comfortable enough, or perhaps, one of them did.

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.

“You are far too beautiful to love me.”

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

Dearest Cedmon,