Estarfin

Naraal let himself drift in the dream world. She was looking appreciatively at him, as she held a piece of the armour Tazakr had found. Then she was running away through the deep snow towards the edge of a cliff. He gave chase. But he was only wearing one of his Umbari tunics and his feet were bare. It was freezing. Then, thankfully, she halted. Something large and dark had climbed up the cliff, and now stood beside her…protectively. 

By the time Alcarinquë the Glorious* had ascended to the zenith of the velvet-indigo sky, its steady, cream-colored radiance burning like a beacon, piercing the dense web of stars that the Elves named the Burning Bridge**, Parnard glided up to the manor house. Through the windowpane he saw Filignil sitting in the kitchen alone, at work polishing several silver candlesticks with a rag dipped in a mixture of vinegar and wood ash. 

Shortly after midday on the second day, I ceased pacing, sat down at my desk, took up pen and paper and began writing.

“I suppose she should be able to defend herself…but only at great need,” Parnard answered, after a long pause. “There are no Trolls to be found in these parts, I think.”

I was not sleeping well. Rather, I replayed my decision of the past two weeks regarding what I knew of Naraal, and what I withheld from Estarfin. I asked myself time and again, why I had not told him that Naraal had been outside Numenstaya to claim the Mithril owed the Black Dwarf.