1st Vaeraleusday of High Winter, Second Age 1853: Landed in the Golden Elf city of Tirion Anor, crashing at the Emerald Spire. We decided Aranesi would be better to take charge here, hoping to visit some of the local repositiories of knowledge. She joined Aelorna in getting us an audience with the Speaker of Summer and on the way we overheard something about a duel taking place in the evening. It was all anyone in the district was talking about. Aelorna pulled some fast moves and got us a spot in a booth with the Speaker of Summer. Figured it’d be all pomp and no punch, but it turned out solid. We clicked, no fluff needed. The real action kicked off when the duel between Telimbectar and a challenger scrapping for a spot in their ranks began. Blades clashed, moves sharp as hell—a proper test of grit. The loser didn't like it and tried some underhanded action, failed, and was made to bleed out on the sand. Speaker seemed rather unimpressed by this dishonorable behavior.
1st Qindirsday of High Winter, Second Age 1853: In the morning, a dinner invite from the Speaker dropped. Daytime had me stuck in libraries with Aranesi, poking through old books about Sol Variar. Word is they were just a “young elves cult” most ditch as they grow up, largely dismissed as irrelevant by the records. Sounds like a dodge to me—too clean a story. Something’s brewing beneath that mask, I’d bet on it.
Dinner with the Speaker was no-nonsense. We locked in some ties and got them hooked on digging into Sol Variar and their link to Luthais. They’ll send updates if they strike gold. Job done, no endless chatter required.
3rd Brahmarusday of High Winter, Second Age 1853: We left Tirion Anor on 1st Seojungsday, rolled back home by 2nd Vaeraleusday after a rather uneventful voyage. I spent the rest of the time leading up to the celebration of the Longest Night by setting up trade agreements with the golden elves. The trade is about to start pouring in now—deals sealed, goods moving. That’s the kind of win I live for.
Holidays are gearing up to be a blast. Bhazel’s been tearing through the fields all week, hauling in the harvest. We’re primed for a feast that’ll hit hard.
Every move here was worth it—tangible, real. I’d take that over a stack of promises or dusty pages any day.