Located in remote mountains at the dwarven outpost of Othrikar there stands a small library, on a table several scrolls are scattered to be read freely by possible passers by. The author may be assumed to have forgotten about leaving them out.
The pages are scribbled on randomly, uncaring in style and word choice with crossed out beginnings, ink blotches, dirt, in a state of being frayed in distress as to fall apart. One can then mid first page start to decipher in simple Sindarin thoughts that would never cross the lips of the one having written them in company of anyone however amiable:
"The stout dwarf and his servant, bless these two, are a dearest company these days, the only I can bear. The last word I received of my Kinsmen before I fled to this forsaken place was their well meant but misplaced advice to meditate. It would help.
There is a rather big empty space between these lines, an apparent simile to the writer in a deciding process of not being able to continue writing at all or whether to abandon the script. It then continues:
Help with what? To reach a state of gratefulness or to numb all senses? It cannot ease the storms inside this foolish mind. Ah but all I feel is anger. Seething rage! I taste it with every breath, smell it in every flower, all winds bring but bitter emptiness. In my dreamless sleep his face keeps appearing to grin and taunt me from the reality within this never-ending nightmare.
Before I turned my step away northwest I faced Rogue in the Breelands. He surprised me little with his words, but I achieved to at least let him know the scale of what his rash actions set in motion. I wanted him to feel the burden of guilt as much as I do, to lessen my own pain. Did he feel it? I cannot tell at all. All I have inside me now is a void. What good does blame do? It won’t bring them back to life. What is left is to see if I am living still, if I find the will to do so. Because who needs me now, shares in my fate? Worthless musings! There is none, need not be any such one. Rage as mine is self fulfilling.
I spent weeks traveling alone to the old landmarks, desperate for any motion to stay instead of passing me by. What I learned about my father in Nethdir’s company while my spear should have been in Annundir was all that I could cling to instead of giving in to death. But again I find myself confronted with a pointless mission. Why should I go to Angmar to learn the fate of the one who abandoned me before I was able to recognize his face? I have no trust left to give only an icy cold that has taken hold of my whole self. I scout these strange lands every day – that is to say I throw myself into the embrace of battle, beast or men I barely see to whom I raise my javelin. If I shall die by recklessness so be it, but the day I return home will be the day I fulfill that rage. There is nothing to be feared now. If my heart had been broken before it is now lost.
Scribbled underneath in a different tone is a short note:
A matter of wonder came to my memory this morning. Whatever became of that Southern man who wished to acquire the help of the Men of North? I will be laughing if he had more success than I did…
Tuilinneth paied her respect to the historic landmarks of the Dunedain. Her travels are marked by a desperate search for something and repeated moments of losing any hope. Here she is found on her knees overwhelmed by utter loss.
