Vanimar

Talkale looked down at the white parchment stretched upon the teak desk in front of him, wondering to himself if he was following the proper course of action. His intentions were good and he had already raised the matter once. No action had occurred, so further steps were needed. Such were the burdens he shouldered and at times they could become wearyingly heavy. Rolling his head from one side to the other to stretch his neck, he dipped his quill into lavender ink and began to write in his usual beautiful script.

***

Lord of Bar-En-Vanimar Anglachelm,

Dolthafaer stared down at the valley, the snow reflecting the sun’s dying light.  A lone howl drifted up to the crumbling stone ruin where the Arrow had stopped to rest.  He grimaced, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, and turned to face the rest of his company.

“We have rested enough.  Time to move on.”

Nolanaro was still on the balcony and for all appearance admiring the view of the stream and waterfall. His mind however wasn't really on the beautiful landscape but still dwelling on his meeting with the lord of the order of the Fountain, Vorongwë.

The elf was surprising in more ways than one :

-First of all he knew him, or rather knew of him. Although Nolanaro was of Vanimar and knew a lot of members from view or by reputation, he was the first to admit it was unlikely that many people knew him.

Fresh pain ripped through him and tore his conscious mind back to wakefulness. He let out a wordless cry of pain and fear as agony tore through his leg. In desperation to stop the pain, to defend himself, he reached out for his shield or his spear. His searching and grasping fingers found nothing but snow as he raised his head to look down his body at the black-furred and yellow-eyed warg that had him firmly in its gaping maw. His leg was being slowly crushed between the steel plates of his grieves as the beast sought a way to get to the vulnerable flesh beneath.

Dolthafaer regarded his company with a critical eye, taking in their thick cloaks and heavy boots and somber colors, and nodded his proud approval.  He passed each of them a small flask of firewhiskey, warning them to use it sparingly in the bitter cold.  He reminded them of their mission, informed them of the dangers they might face, and a moment before he would have started them down the path, Veryacano approached them.  The Hammer lord briefly inspected the gathering before leaving them with a final order:

Imladris, TA 30--