Parnard

The warm humid air was heavy with the cloying perfume of sweet jasmine and tuberose. Slowly the light shifted, brightening from the soft grey light to the whiteness of a new day. He became aware of voices lifted in greeting and opened his eyes.

A tall, thin elf in a long burgundy robe was smiling at everybody. He seemed to be very well known, and spoke softly using a language Laelas could not decipher.

Yesterday evening he was disinclined for conversation. Oh yes, he has appetite, but no relish, and after eating he is downhearted and anxious.

This letter is written on fine parchment, in an elegant and flowing script. It bears an ornate seal  depicting an embossed mallorn flower surrounded by two golden leaves.

Fuirgam, Commander of the Malledhrim forces in the Greenwood, by leave of Lord Celeborn of Lórien,

To Lord Ambassador Parnard of Bar-en-Vanimar, Greetings.

With a loud creak of the front door, Faorie returns to her house, weary of the long day's festivities. She holds a hand woven satchel borrowed from the House of Iavasant storing all of her gifts from the party in one hand while the other drags a disposable bag of empty wine bottles.
Leaving the bag of bottles by the front door, she carries the satchel to her study where she carefully removes all of its contents.

Luthelian stood at the edge of camp, scanning the surroundings for any movement. She paused, her eyes resting on a tall stone figure standing in the distance with its back to the imposing cliff wall.

Brasseniel studied the snowflakes that fell into her open palm, shining white against the black leather glove only for an instant before they melted in the warmth of her breath. 

To the Lord Ambassador of Bar-en-Vanimar Parnard,

It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter to you. When your lordship left for the Hithaeglir, little did I know that my duty would require me to bear sad tidings to you through my letters. I had one in progress since the last report I sent, and it consisted of all important matters, such as the latest speculations of the valley folk and the tale of an escaped chicken from the kitchens, but the contents of that report matter very little now.

What are thou fit for, O Culufinnel? Wherefore have I commanded you to watch, wherefore have I endeavored to make you fit. Patience does not wait forever and life does not look back. Now go, swiftly, to the Valley, and show these Noldor what speed looks like!

It was now nearly twelve hours since his brother had spat out these words and the snow had eased a little. Culufinnel was feeling miserable. He was soaked from head to foot and Themodir’s weight was heavy on his shoulders, yet nothing mattered; he did not slacken his steps.

Remain within the keep, he had told them.  Rest.

A simple order. 

Clear as crystal. 

A storm had been brewing – always perilous, this far East in the Hithaeglir – and up until that point, his scouts had been working tirelessly, alternating between watch and patrol.  There had been no need for extra eyes in a blizzard.  He had wanted them to take the opportunity to rest, regain their strength.

Yrill had disobeyed him. 

Tancamir had disobeyed him. 

Luthelian rested her hand against her forehead, the dizzying effects of her head injury not entirely having left her.

“For the remainder of this mission, your duty is to watch the camp. You will not wander from your post.”

“But, my lord! That is unfair. I can help the others scout.” Surely, he would not make her entirely useless during their time in the Hithaeglir. Her head pounded more as her temper rose.