Parnard

I do not know how to begin this, as I do not know who will read it. At times I have seen others writing their own thoughts in such a way, and perhaps it is only now that I see the value of such a record. For even though I have no great wisdom to pass to those who come after me, I would still have them know of me. Maybe writing this down will grant me a little peace before the darkness overtakes us all, and the world ends in ruin. But how to start, that still eludes me. What would any wish to know of me?

“So what will you do with him?”

I shrug, inadvertently jostling my hand so that Maltariel’s neat strapping falls loose. She gives me a reproachful look and reaches for the ends of the cloth, her deft hands tying it up again with quick, sure movements. Although it is only bruised, my wrist is stiff and sore still when I come to lift a sword, and she has decreed that it must be strapped, for now, until it is recovered. While she reties the cloth, I look up across the river, enjoying the peace for a moment.

Continued from: The Speech

Veryacano raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he was amused with Parnard's speech but he kept an indifferent expression and did not refrain from replying with a speech of his own. He adjusted his sitting posture and began with a serious voice:

Continued from following stories:

Manhandled, Folly and Fury, Sword and Stone, Black Ice

In response to http://laurelinarchives.org/node/12005

Continued from High on the Mountain

Veryacano studied the eager elf before him for a long while before speaking. ‘‘Spirits you indeed have, young Parnard!” he said, chuckling, and gestured for him to stand.

Continued from: Footsteps in the Snow

Not much could be seen through the white mist of the mountains and even less could be heard through the endless cold winds that blew. Still, Parnard was of the Quendi and he was blessed with sight and hearing beyond the ability of mortals. His senses allowed him to hear the slight sounds of the grinding snow under approaching footsteps.