Elvealin

Tancamir sat crouched with his back to the wall of the ruin, fire crackling in the distance. Before him lay a worn but clean piece of parchment, as well as a battered leather-bound journal covered in scrawling notes. He sighed.

Remember.

She might already be dead.

Remember.

It’s your fault.

A tree, another one, the swamp, the lights... Seven days and no findings. My hands, my bag, my phials, all empty.

The sound of Elvealin’s crystal bell pendant. Norliriel knows I do not want to go back yet, I am sure. The crystal bell, once again. Norliriel’s hand is on my hands. I feel woozy.

I have to ask. “How much more do you think we can keep looking?”

 The watchful eyes of the lone sentry found her as soon as she stepped out from the shadows of the trees, but he only nodded, eyes flicking to the stitched mark of her company on her arm, and gestured for her to pass.

As she moved closer, one corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile, and he remarked: “You're getting sloppy, Cae. Saw you coming from miles away.”

It appears I do not have to cook much today. There are still much food after the feast of unveiling Anglachelm's portrait, and I have to get yet rid of some of it, somehow.

"Had the scholars at Thargelion been tardy, they would have soon found themselves in one of the northern forts," Danel whispered to him.

Parnard nodded, unable to reply, because the small group of elves was staring at him. The coolness of the morning air was faded; there was no time to spare. 

With a loud creak of the front door, Faorie returns to her house, weary of the long day's festivities. She holds a hand woven satchel borrowed from the House of Iavasant storing all of her gifts from the party in one hand while the other drags a disposable bag of empty wine bottles.
Leaving the bag of bottles by the front door, she carries the satchel to her study where she carefully removes all of its contents.

I walked on the road away from Last Homely House, and my feet started to climb a small hill, or rather towards a cairn, the cairn of Themodir. Elvealin has told me what had happened in his funeral, and I wanted to pay my own respects.

Elvealin passed by him in the hall carrying a large crate. She was not a weak girl, and her arms were as strong as pine branches. Still, she was delighted by his courtesy. Parnard taking the crate hurried to the chamber where she directed him, and laid it upon the floor, convinced that he had injured himself.

“What, pray, is inside this box?” he panted, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief.