Tingruviel

Sarmëtecil, the secretary-scribe of the Order of the Pillar, had learned a trick lately for dealing with the Lady's recent jumpiness: she knocked on the wall of the hallway before reaching the door of the office. The sound was fainter and, to the keen ears of the Eldar, fairer -- perhaps the wood was lebethron, Sarmë knew not, and she was no harpist, but judged the sound to be lighter and gentler than the sound of knocking on the actual door.

They say, Diary, that there is no fool like an old fool, and so I felt when -- having sent a panicky message to our Tûr via raven -- I discovered the source of the blood on the missing scribe's bed-clothes: a bat flew in somehow and chose to devour its mouse far from the hungry hawks -- indeed, hanging immediately above Sorontar's bed. A second search revealed tiny bones and, horrifyingly, the tail. 

Arradril of the Order of the Arrow hooked a finger into the collar of her immaculate tabard, as though it were too tight. It had in fact been made to measure, to drape perfectly over the reinforced gambeson that Arrows wore in order to creep about the forest in silence. But Captain Sáranassë was, of late, insisting on visibility -- at least part of the time. So Arradril wore the indigo, inspired by Gondolin's House of the Swallow, and bore herself gravely when within the Vale. Most of the time.

Dear Diary,

I pressed the key to Themodir's house into the wide hand of a very surprised Dwarf fellow named Grunngi. In the course of events, it was decided that we would bring Grunngi back with us from Hrimbarg, for no good could come of the miserable life he was leading there with his perpetually angry cousin. (Some mystery surrounds the cousin, as it does everything lately.)

Daeruth sighed, studying the dark gem was exceedingly taxing, and she could feel an enormous headache coming on.
She sighed again and set down the tool she was using, all her experiments on the gem told her it was a dangerous thing to possess, of all the experiments she performed the last was the most intriguing.

Dear Diary,

Daeruth felt as though she had become useful again, since being ostracised for mushroom picking and accused of treasure seeking in some ruins that scout Filegris asked her to stay away from, Hiril Tingruviel had requested she attend Lady Ealendil and Master Maedhrathin at the old school of Mirobel, the pair were wed and Daeruth let them chatter about inconsequential things while she studied the scraps of old knowledge for anything of interest, seperating to cover more area each spent time making notes, moving further into what she assumed was an old master's room or assembly h

Dear Diary,

Well, that was painful in a way I had not pictured. 

I shall not reproduce here the autopsy report, which is really only for Tûr anyway, since the body of my beloved husband-brother was witnessed by Tingruviel, Elvealin, Tindir, Estarfin, and Veryacano, and assisted by my twin star Norliriel. None of them should have had to see Daegond so. 

Daeruth is sitting at her desk waiting with her usual infinite patience for the Hiril Tingruviel to arrive at the Hall of the Pillar, the apprentice that had taken her note and told Daeruth the meeting time had made themselves scarce knowing that eavesdropping on the conversations of Daeruth could end badly.