Narumire

Sarmëtecil was a Noldë, and proud, as such folk are wont to be, but even she trembled slightly before the stare of the Lady of the Pillar. "It is true, my lady. Great heaps of log-books are simply missing -- erm, not to be found at this time." She ran a finger under the collar of her burgundy tabard, which now seemed uncomfortably tight.

"What," Manadhlaer began, but fortified herself with a swig of tea before she continued. "Do you mean. Missing."

"It is our hope that in time, we may locate --"

My dear Merenellon,

I have only just received this letter by courier -- I have learned from the earlier incident with the postal courier, you will be glad to hear, and now no matter how much little Daegond barks, I have my mail brought to Pillar Hall instead. Cats do have a way of treating strangers with a sublime indifference of which my poor little anger-sprout is simply incapable.

After her night in the Hammer Hall, which at the very least did her no harm, Manadhlaer had been whisked around the Vale to a dizzying variety of safe-houses. This bright, bright morning, Manadhlaer had taken her breakfast in the Hall of the Order of the Fountain. Where Hammer Hall had smelled like a soldier's armpit directly after a battle, despite the most heroic efforts of Lieutenant Ancalassë, Fountain currently smelled like -- well, soap, and lots of it.

Manadhlaer awoke in the dark, in more than one way.

Someone had thoughtfully tucked her diary under her arm. Had she a quill and ink? They must be in her pouch, if she could find it.

With infinite care, she put her feet -- disguised, as she had thought, in mismatched boots, which suited her sloppy grey tunic -- on the floor. She groped around a bit, head pounding; she tried not to move more quickly, lest she vomit again.