Dolthafaer

The afternoon air bore the slight chill of a spring that had not yet lengthened into the gracious warmth of summer. Somewhere nearby, the song of a lark floated from a shadowed glade as Uilossiel made her way along the well-worn path. Brushing away a stray lock of dark hair blown by the gentle breeze, she drew her warm cloak about her shoulders.

Dolthafaer wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sharp scent of the balm as he rubbed it into his shoulder, the large bruise there as bright a purple as the tunics he tended to wear to gatherings in the Hall of Fire.  The balm and the bruise both were gifts from Sargiel, a fellow recruit of the Hammer with whom he had taken up training.  The lady fought very well; she was young, but had apparently been born with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other.  It had been a long time since he had had such an excellent sparring partner. 

Aldúya, the 46th day of Tuilë, year 3008 of the Third Age.

It has been quite a long time since I was at home, and it shows. Or at least it did until I dusted and cleaned up the place.

Now I am lazily enjoying, in peace and safety, a glass of wine with a warm fire in the living room, my instruments all cared for and at their usual places. I am quite sure no one will need my skill in the minute, either as a minstrel or as a healer.

Am I lazy to think so and enjoy it ? Tonight, yes.

Dolthafaer laughed with relief the moment he found himself alone in his house that night. 

Everything had gone better than expected.