Foreyule 18, 1399 SR

Uncle Elrond has been on my case about writing you as directed, so on pain of losing Pavilion privileges, I spill a little ink in your direction.

How goes it?

Here it goes well.

The raucous company of men that you may have noticed while you were skulking here have finally departed, headed east to infest Dale, I’m told. It’ll take some time for their hall to air out enough for me to pass through it.

It looks like it’ll be another glorious winter, a little nip in the air coming out of the north, just perfect for practicing my calisthenics out of doors.

Well, keep your head on, dwarf.

--Aristar

P.S. You may consider wearing just one layer of mail, as two make you look fat and frumpy.

--A

Foreyule 23, 1399 SR

I’ll have you know that my armor is older than you, and better polished! It’s seen more battles than you can probably count! My cousin Urkil took a look at it once and said that there was no doubt that one or two links in the mail (ONE layer, thank you) are original.

The difference between you elves and we dwarves is that I needed to beg no one’s permission to put off writing to you. But now that I suppose your feelings will be hurt, I’d better respond.

I thought one or two of those Dunedaín that visited last week looked familiar; I must have spotted them at Rivendell. They had names like Walker or Trotter or Totter or something. I didn’t notice the excessive body odor that you complained about. They claimed to have spent a couple days trying to gain entrance. Daín actually apologized; it’s been a couple years since we’ve had visitors and simply no one heard the bell. Anyway, they spent some time in conference and now some crews have been mobilized.

Finally some action around here! Daín thoughtfully gave us the choice to join in, and Urkil took him up on it. We’ve been attached to the 38^th Corridor Crew, which Urkil claims was mobilized because the 38^th corridor collapsed some time ago. I couldn’t tell whether he was joking, as usual.

Anyway, the crew boss, this guy Tundín, is a bit uptight. He stopped me as I was showing these Erebor fellows some of my stuff and said so help him, we may be guests, but if I don’t stay in line, he’ll join the orcs and shave my b*tt himself with the sharp side of his axe. Not the way to welcome talent, in my view. The others call him Ol’ Brassboot behind his back. Well, I’ll just have to show him on the field what we Westerners are capable of. We may not be well-heeled, but we know how to swing an axe (or two)!

So I’ll be beating back the Darkness while you lounge away in your Pavilion, elf. I’ll forward you an orc ear, if I think about it, so you’ll have something to impress the women with.

--Lumín

Afteryule 3, 1400 SR

I’ll have none of your grisly mementoes, my friend, and they’re not the way to impress the ladies. But I suppose you couldn’t know that!

Speaking about the ladies, I did manage to upset Arwen the other day when I started speculating exactly what it is that allows humans to breed so profusely. She flushed deep red and then went off in a huff to complain to Uncle Elrond. The good thing is that my Special Sensitivity Training has been suspended indefinitely—it was the most miserable waste of time in all my hundreds-years of schooling. But on the bad side, it has done nothing to improve my relations with my uncle.

He got into a heated discussion the other evening with Morwen, a field commander, something that rarely happens here. “I won’t guarantee his safety!” Morwen was heard to shout before Erestor calmed her down. I can’t help thinking that they were arguing about me. Everyone around here has become so tense! Some of my friends won’t look me in the eye any more.

My feelings won’t be hurt at all if you stop writing, dwarf, though I suppose you have more to fear from your father on that issue!

--Aristar

Afteryule 10, 1400 SR

We’ve been on the trail a couple days now, and I still think I prefer eating field rations to the task of writing you! But Urkil’s scribbling off a note, so I may as well follow suit.

We left on the back swing of the axe, as we say, and reached the town of Men just as it was rousing. “Quiet, Lumpy!” Urkil joked. “You’ll raise the alarm with your wheezing!” He was the only one that made noise as we marched by, whistling tunelessly.

A couple of grimy children spotted us and rubbed their eyes as if they were still dreaming. I made them jump back with a couple flourishes of my axe, but Ol’ Brassboot spotted me. “Find a place to stow your weapon, Lumín, before I find one for you!” he growled.

By midmorning we reached the furthest outposts of the human settlements. The rangers traveling with us picked up some comrades, then charged on ahead.

Once we on open road, the others relaxed a bit. A shieldman named Glúmir thought he spotted a vulture circling overhead, but it turned out to be an eagle. “‘Tis a good omen,” said Vefnir, the chaplain.

To make the time pass more quickly, one of the archers, a fellow named Blanda, offered to sing a song. “We’re heading east,” he reasoned, “so how ‘bout ‘The Final Days of Bâr-Shûal?’” No one said anything, so he cleared his throat and began.

Smoke and dust hover, surprised and mourning,

Over the corpses heaped by the ruined gate

As the remnant bar the remaining dwarf-hold

Against the Easterling slide.

With but strings of hide for rations of meat,

And a few drops of scum-choked ale,

Isgrár instructed his bruised and ragged crew,

“Use your sinews while you still have some…”

With naught but such to cheer us, we followed the trail of the Rangers’ hooves.

-- Lumín

Afteryule 14, 1400 SR

My fears have been realized, and I’ve joined you in the field, though, thank Manwë, it’s a different one than the one that you’re currently indisposing.

A few came down to see me off—Pavilion buddies, mostly. Uncle Elrond stood proudly by, dispensing kind words to everyone. Even Arwen put our little spat behind us and showed up. With a sad sort of smile, she gave me a parting pat.

Commander Morwen was right behind her. Her famous black blade lashed out over her boots as she came up, despite its having been bound tightly to her side. They say that Morwen could rival Arwen in beauty, even at her age, but for two disfigurements: her demeanor and the chill instinct that fires it. No elf fights under her command but the few that she somehow does not intimidate. But now there is one exception in her grim troop—ME. I could not endure her brief inspection and had to look away. She dismissed me into the care of Ulwarth, one of her lieutenants, and brushed past me to the front of the troop.

It was then I first noticed an emaciated form hunched over a ratty bag. The wisps of hair on its head shook with the effort of rummaging through its small store of belongings. The gap between its shoulder blades was so deep that the scuffed and dented bow on its back positively rattled. “Is THAT on our side?” I wondered.

I must have spoken aloud, because Annorem, the only other personable chap in the company, answered me. “Oh, that’s just Mandos. He doesn’t come in very often.”

Apparently, “Mandos” lives in the wild. He turned toward me then, and I saw that his visage more than lived up to the moniker. His mouth is usually drawn up into a tight, lipless smile—more like a scar—filled with rotted or missing teeth, between which he sort of hisses, but never intelligibly. His eyes are large, round, and lashless, but expressive. They appear friendly compared to the remains of his nose just below them, and a terrible scar plunges from one ear, across his neck, and onto his chest at the center of his shirt. I resolved then and there never to allow this fellow behind my back.

My misgivings dissolved after we had set out and I saw the unharvested fields beyond the forest’s edge. The snow-cloaked clumps of wheat looked to me like the browbeaten devouts of an evil god, and I ran out and danced through them mockingly. Though a few of my new companions turned to observe, only Annorem laughed, his voice like crystal on the silver air, while Mandos blew out great clouds of steam from the ghastly gash on his face.

--Aristar

Afteryule 20, 1400 SR

Well, sounds like a real group of warriors you’ve joined. What are YOU doing there?

There are a few characters in my company, too. Fellow named Langhakr is none to clean of habit. You thought the rangers were bad! This guy picks the cheese out from between his toes with the point of his greataxe. Urkil told him that he must be a dark dwarf because he uses poisoned weapons. Langhakr just grunted and shook his matted mane.

Our one Khâzad guard, Macweyr, is the polar opposite. He’s a heavy hitter—perhaps more so than Langhakr, but clean-cut and professional, the kind that’ll look up into your eye and speak a friendly word. He often consults with Tundin and generally stays above the bickering. The other day, though, he had to intervene when Glumir picked a fight with me.

We were just settling in to camp when I heard him complain how we would have gotten there two hours earlier “were it not for that oversized troll’s whelp.” Urkil kept me off my feet or I would have settled matters myself. Then Ol’ Brassboot came stomping up and yelled there’d be no belittling unless it was by him, and he prefers to use his axe, which he spun in his palm for emphasis. Macweyr finally persuaded Glumir to shove off a ways, then Tundin turned to us and almost looked embarrassed when he told Urkil that we’d have to pick up the pace a bit. Urkil kind of shrugged as he addressed me. “You heard the dwarf,” he said.

Since then, I’ve learned a bit of good news, elf! The rangers ahead of us left word that one of their companies faced down the army of goblins that were darkening the Great Wood. Well, most of us would consider that good news. You probably think it’s bad news because now they’re probably headed in your direction, and you might actually have to draw a weapon!

-- Lumín

Afteryule 24, 1400 SR

Well, we’re at the bottom of Redhorn Pass, and there’s still no sign of the goblins you promised.

We’re taking a little break before heading up. The commander is squatting some distance ahead with Balan and Mandos, staring intently into the mountains. Perhaps they are worried about avalanches?

Speaking of Mandos, there was an interesting occurrence last week. We’d just passed the outermost spur of the Hollin Ridge when Morwen abruptly left the path and cut into the holly east toward the mountains. No one said a word but simply followed her lead, so I shrugged and followed along.

We traveled across a number of dry washes until we reached one of no particular significance, where Morwen called a halt halfway up the farther side. The elves rested sparingly; I guess they knew our time there would be short. I casually examined the hillside and noticed that some of the stones peeking above the snow were stacked. Annorem was standing nearby, so I asked him, “What is this place?”

“This was Mandos’ home,” he replied simply. “They found him lying nearby.”

Just then a keen shriek rent the air. Mandos had gone a little further up and was emitting an unearthly cry. It set my teeth on edge, but if the other elves felt any pity or unease, they showed no sign. Finally the cry trailed off to what sounded like a sob. “I sure hope our enemies find Mandos terrifying,” I said to no one in particular, “because I certainly do!”

Annorem looked up and smiled. His eyes shifted slightly, and a realization dawned on me. I whirled about, and sure enough, Mandos was only a few paces above me, hissing. The gap on his face was back in its normal semblance of a smile, as if he hadn’t been completely distraught only a few moments before. Morwen roused herself and the rest of the company with a word, and we quietly cut down the gully towards the pass.

Well, we’ll soon be over to help out you fellows there in the east. Keep your missives coming; they’ve proved invaluable diversion for all of us on this dreary march.

--Aristar

Solmath 21, 1400 SR

I keep your letters to myself. No matter how I try to interest the others in the writings of an elf, they could care less.

We’ve taken our objective, the bridge over the Celduin. A ranger named Stomper invited us to stay on and clear the surrounding region, and Tundin accepted. “It’s easier to mine precious metals from corpses than from solid rock,” my cousin said with a shrug when he heard the news. I for one am glad, my axe having failed to get the drink it came for!

But the enemy simply melts away before us. No doubt they realize they are no match for our skills in battle! One ranger and the eagle that had accompanied us have apparently deserted, but tiny men have appeared north of the river and busily set their fields back to rights.

The tedium grows despite the tasty draughts Blanda obtains from the locals. No match for a home brew, of course--kind of on the light and frilly side--and they never serve enough to really stretch a belly, but I suppose one couldn’t really expect more of elves…

-- Lumín