Veryacano

It could not have been a more splendid day for a tournament. 

The sun was high in the clear blue sky by the time Dolthafaer arrived in Delossad – the ruins situated in a glade not far from Imladris, pillars and walls of crumbling grey stone encircling a courtyard overgrown with wildflowers of purple and white and gold.  

The trial being concluded, I approached Lord Estarfin to congratulate him on his victory, but he only shook his head at me and gave me quite a cold answer. I perceive that he takes very ill with me, and thinks me a faithless friend, when I insist that I did all I could to help him.

I understand from your letter that you wish to receive a commission from Lord Veryacano. I do not know your particular reasons for wishing to join the Order of the Hammer, but it seems fitting, and very favorable; if you are accepted, you will find all manner of honours conferred upon you, which are exclusive to the Hammer Order.

My Lord,

I had heard some talk in the courtyard of one of the guests leaving very abruptly, having taken sick, and all his symptoms indicated that his sickness was probably due to the food that he ate while in the Hall of Fire, which, it was said, was a seafood repast graciously supplied by my Lord Anglachelm.

The Ambassador inquired whether there would be any objection to his communicating with the prisoner. There was not. Mirdoron and Mallenhadh seemed to think nothing important would likely result, and that the skinny, mild-mannered elf seemed harmless. They waved him aside.

"I should prefer to speak to him alone, in more comfortable surroundings - perhaps the Hall of Fire? No? Well, have it your way, then." Parnard smiled affably.

“It is not your place to command me, I am free to stay or go by my own will!” Galuoneth spoke the words with a certainty that she did not feel, not when faced with the grim Noldor before her. Estarfin stood to the fore, dressed in a thick leather apron, carrying a heavy hessian sack over one shoulder, a wooden case of tools in his other hand. To his left stood Ruineth, dressed in a tabard of thick suede, turned almost black from long years spent before the forge.

When I woke up at Echad Eregion, I recalled a thing that Elvealin had told me before we departed. She and Feahelka had seen the Dunlending trying to establish a camp near Gwingris. There is some time of that but I still thought that the Lords present would appreciate the information, and so I told them.

We reached the Valley in good time. Lord Estarfin was more quiet than usual, perhaps contemplating the making of the sword he had been charged with crafting for our Lord Anglachelm. Close by the chalk path that leads to the Valley, we met a elf lady, a soldierly-type, by the name of Limiriel.