Vinyalonde

There was a small rustling noise by the door, and a mouse-like squeak. Uilossiel looked up from her work distractedly, pen stilling in her hand. Limthir stood in the doorway, chestnut hair hopelessly tousled. She smiled indulgently at the apprentice scholar, gesturing for him to enter.

“Er… you have a letter, hiril Uilossiel.” He awkwardly put his hand forwards, handing over a letter with an ornate seal of golden wax, stamped with a crest of niphredil blossoms and mallorn leaves. Her eyes widened.

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The rich, warm soil parted as her hands worked through them. In the numerous holes she had made, there rested single seeds and saplings. Some of these she recognized from previous ages of gardening when passage into the Greenwood was easier. Others were products of change in time and land, unknown potentials waiting to bud. In Eliriael's eyes shined the full extent of the hope she had for these young plants.

He was still young when it happened. Once united and mighty, they were divided and weakened. Factions were established, swords were forged in secret and dark whispers spread; words of treason and rebellion. Lies. It had been Morgoth who sowed the seeds, but the Noldor took care of the harvest.

They had bitterly paid for each their wrongs.

Another year has ended, the accounts worse than ever; and to hear tales of the southern farmlands burning, great fires spreading from the East, and to see the sight of our people fleeing for the Shores, victim to foul poison - but what use is it to relate the problems of our people, which are known t