Vanimar

In a wide room arrayed with all manner of decorations, 

He stood silently by the window, deep in thought as he stared out across the valley. The leaves had turned from green to gold, and from gold to brown, and he could feel the time slipping away. Winter would follow soon, and many of the passes would become closed until spring arrived, the chance to leave the valley lost. The last of the day’s sunlight flowed lazily through the thick glass, casting his shadow across the richly-inlaid desk behind him. A map and a letter lay upon the desk, but otherwise it was bare.

Estarfin turned the large brass key in the lock, hearing the mechanism click open. Pulling the heavy ash door open, he stepped inside the dark room, the torch that he carried flickering as a breeze caught it. He thrust the torch into an iron loop that hung upon the wall and looked around the Vanimar armoury. There were weapons of all varieties hanging upon the walls, or stacked on shelves. Large war hammers lay propped against the wall, next to a rack of delicate single-handed swords.

Pulling it from the sheath, I saw that the blade was indeed as she had described it; of good quality, but worn and needing care. I swung the sword with one hand, nodding with satisfaction that it still sang as it cleaved the air: the blade had life in it yet. Running my finger along the flat of the blade, I searched for the balance point. I shook my head slightly as I found it, far too far ahead of the guard. That would lead to overbalanced strikes, and would cause fatigue of the forearm quickly.

Continued from http://laurelinarchives.org/node/12450