Parnard

Lilleduil pulled the silk gauze from over her eyes, since she was safely under the cover of the trees, and looked up the hill at Akûltot.  Yes, the goblin settlement had spread further than the border she’d noted the last time she’d been up here, creeping like some leprous fungal growth down the slope.  The goblin activity was subdued in the bright daylight, but there was still some bustle in the camps.

A comforting sense of forgetfulness was draped over him like a shroud; drowning out all fears and all questions in a warm and dark embrace. Yet it was not a sense of peace that filled his limited perception, for peace is a state of being that is dependent upon the existence of another, alternative state. Without war or conflict what meaning does the word peace have? Perhaps then oblivion would be correct; an absence of all sensation except darkness. Although despite the emptiness around him, not all was still and silent.

Hir Parnard,

Talkale looked down at the white parchment stretched upon the teak desk in front of him, wondering to himself if he was following the proper course of action. His intentions were good and he had already raised the matter once. No action had occurred, so further steps were needed. Such were the burdens he shouldered and at times they could become wearyingly heavy. Rolling his head from one side to the other to stretch his neck, he dipped his quill into lavender ink and began to write in his usual beautiful script.

***

Lord of Bar-En-Vanimar Anglachelm,

Dolthafaer frowned down at the map spread across his desk, brow furrowed, restlessly drumming his fingers against the smooth wooden surface.  His gaze swept over the inked region of the Hithaeglir, returning again and again to the red splotch marked on the top right corner.

That is where Estarfin went, Parnard had claimed.  To the Goblin Caves.

Miruial crept into the healing room on the soft padding of her thin periwinkle slippers. The scene before her was clearly the cause of alarm among the steady stream of healers who had come to her at her workshop that day. Glass jars and phials that usually stood at attention in neat orderly rows on their shelves stood in haphazard locations all throughout the room. Several balls of parchment paper lay littered at the base of the red table, where Eliriael sat poised rigidly.

“She cannot be consoled!” the first had announced.

“When?”

“Two days ago.” The Ambassador looked bitter, his usual pleasant disposition gone. “I would not have thought Estarfin to be so foolish as to disobey Lord Anglachelm.”

Limiriel hoisted her shield on her back, kicking up her spear and catching it.

“There is nothing for me to do in the Valley. And as you know, I... have amends to make." Pausing, she pulled out the small dagger in her glove then sheathed it again. "Gladly will I take on this errand.”

An involuntary cry of pain escaped his bruised and chapped lips as a thin dagger found a way through his broken armour and cut deeply into the pale flesh of his upper arm. With barely a conscious thought he swept the heavy shield that he carried into his assailant, knocking them careering backwards and clearing the immediate space in front of him. The anger that had fuelled the scything sweeps of his wicked spear was ebbing from him as the bone-chilling cold pierced the madness and began to rapidly sap what strength remained to him.

Brasseniel was still humming the last song of the night under her breath as she let herself into the room. It had been a lovely evening of music and dancing with others of Bar-en-Vanimar, practicing their steps for the Yule Ball.  She was sad that it ever had to end.  

She found Nelthiel curled up in a chair by the fire, cooing over a soft ball of fur in her lap.  A kitten?  When and where had her sister found herself a kitten?  Brasseniel had to wonder how long it would take for her to fill their rooms with every stray that Imladris had to offer.