maurr

Somewhere above the hushed rushing of the underground river, and the faint flow of music throughout the Halls of Felegoth, a home settles once more into quiet.  The embers of the hearth have long been quieted, and the grand dining table – already dusty with disuse from its owner’s continued comings and goings – is scene to a last round of hasty packing.

[This letter is mostly written in Westron using cursive cirth, a handsome upright hand that is both elegant and crisply legible. It is also… substantially long.]

Bíld son of Bóurr to Híril Nardhwen greeting!

Over tall snowy mountains raking teeth against the sky, through craggy valleys tangled with trees, the raven flies. Over yellow hills and plains flies Pock, till the green of the Chetwood erupts at the border of Bree-land. The raven’s westmost destination is just past those trees — a shabby house in a little village, marked by a far less shabby, stone-reinforced windmill, sweeps turning vigorously in the stout Spring breeze.

Over lake long and forest vast, a raven with two white feathers flies. Every wingbeat, those feathers flash, a bright gleam moving among stone and tree. In the past, it made the raven a little nervous, worried those unusual feathers would draw the eye of predators or worse. 

Several pages are filled with notes transcribing a story as told in rapid shorthand, messier than usual. There are several places where the notes become almost scribbles and at least one place where a line indicates the writer’s hand jerked in surprise, leaving an unintended mark. A few doodles of Dwarves and frogs fill the margins in various size ratios.

It was not announced to the Mountain when it happened, and so the crowd that gathered in the plaza was at first only small. Even so, when the doors of the grand home built high on a terrace above flew fully open, bend towards them did the attention of most neighbors standing on the stone walkways around; and when three Dwarves exited, the two flanking in robes brilliant enough but the one between them shining like a polished lapis set in silver and gold, the attention of all the neighbors followed them.

As with so much of Erebor, the ability of the Dwarves to draw light into every corner of their home might surprise the unexpecting traveller.  However deep below the mountain one finds themselves, light filters down, suffusing the tunnels with illumination.  In a small, relatively quiet corner of a workshop, that light rests peacefully on staves and slivers of silver-grey wood, giving the scene a sense of calm that belies how busy it was only moments ago.  All the

The works of Men will never cease to amaze me.

Into the domicile on the far side of Tumnu-dûm steps the young Dwarf, after scuffing his boots still muddied by the road from Dale on the step outside. There he pauses—to wait for his host to invite him further, yes, but also to look around with a hum and a sigh as he unclasps his cloak, draping it over his left arm; the heat of the fireplaces already hitting him.

Dear journal, I had meant to write to you from a calmer place, and a more rested mind.