Annunghil

“What do you mean they’re not in the Vale?!” Thendryt’s voice was high, and most likely leaking out of Lord Elrond’s library.
“I think you understand me quite clearly, Thendryt son of Mors.” Elrond said with authority in his voice, yet he came across as calm and somehow caring.
“Well where have they gone?!” Thendryt roared. “And you, you must be able to explain something!”

Dear Gwanûr,

With a thud, the smithing hammer clattered to the floor. Makanárë stared at it blankly, eyelids drooping. How long had she been in the forges? Hours? Days? She had lost count. Glancing at the polished steel blades which lay on the table before her, she nodded in satisfaction. All the commissions which she had received in the past month lay finished and ready to be delivered, as finely hammered and polished as she could manage.

She stood, face turned to the west, wind whipping her hair into an unruly mess, and watched the dying light vanish beyond the vale of Imladris. Standing on a high rocky ledge north of the valley, Makanárë spared a brief glance downwards, watching as the lights of Imladris glimmered below. It had been a long day, and she rolled her shoulders once before thoughtlessly pulling out a dagger from her gauntlet and twirling it in one hand.

Isilya, the 54^th day of Lairë

​

So spoke the Kinslayer,

Mindful of hardships,

Of fierce slaughters,

And the downfall of Kinsmen.