Sorontar

It was not that, as she removed a stack of hairpins, Manadhlaer thought anything had gone particularly wrong at the Ball. Indeed, at times the dance-floor had been an impenetrable Huorn-forest of bodies through which she simply could not struggle hard enough to reach the other side of the room.

They say, Diary, that there is no fool like an old fool, and so I felt when -- having sent a panicky message to our Tûr via raven -- I discovered the source of the blood on the missing scribe's bed-clothes: a bat flew in somehow and chose to devour its mouse far from the hungry hawks -- indeed, hanging immediately above Sorontar's bed. A second search revealed tiny bones and, horrifyingly, the tail. 

This diary page is splotched with tea along one edge, but is perfectly legible.

Well, Diary? Can you believe it? I shall finally be having some company who is not coming to my door with an arrow in them, or bone sticking out of them, or spitting blood. That is, if he actually forgives me. I do hope the boy forgives me. Not everybody of my own kindred has had the sort of life I have led, and I need to be mindful of that. 

I see the last black swan
Fly past the sun
I wish I, too, were gone
Back home again

Daeruth and Sorontar were studying in the secret library, the mountain seemed unquiet as a far rumbling could be randomly heard all the time they were pulling books from their places looking at the titles or first pages and either setting aside for further inspection or replacing if the book proved unhelpful, moving onto the next bookcase Daeruth began pulling books again while Sorontar perused any that she set on the desk that he should delve into, anything mentioning gems, the odd khuzdul language or a cradle was 

Given carte blanche by the representatives of Blue Mountains Regiment to wander the halls at will, Daeruth decides to actually do her job and find some references to the riddle of the chest, naturally after restocking her keg of Longbeard brandy, a word here, a deed there, and all would soon be as it should, Daeruth had never travelled to this hall before though it looked vaugely familiar in parts, could it be built on the ruins of Belegost? if so, all the tunnels and mines around could hold the treasure they were seeking, concentrate...

Rain slowly, gently falling onto the rooftop. Drip, drip, drip... the window was kept wide open in the hopes of at least a slight breeze, but there would be no wind in sight on this hot summers eve. It was dark already, as if someone had put a warm, wet blanket all over Imladris. From the window, one could see some lanterns still lit along the paths up to the Last Homely House. She would note guests coming and going long into the night. Some of the kin were most likely gathered in the Hall of Fire again, enjoying light music and good wine. Like most nights, those delights were denied her.

Dear Diary,

Well, the meeting turned into a great shambles of speculation, and then it turned into an expedition. Not back to Eregion, to try the restored keys provided by Earnio, but to the Blue Mountains, and indeed the doors of Thorin's Halls.

Tingruviel asked to make the diplomatic request for information in person. I could hardly deny her this -- she knows best about what approaches work, and we need this to work.

The parchment is written in Dwarven Cirth runes. There is no signature, seal, or other identifying mark of the author.

sky to peak
peak to pass
pass to snow
winter's wrath
many wailing
many fleeing
pass to plains
rivers go dry
no rest in the south
dwarf door closes
knowledge opens
where is the key?
treasure is danger