Eliriael ran her hand over the parchment on her desk. One of the healers had brought in the letter to her, bearing Lord Anglachelm's seal, earlier that morning. Her brows furrowed gently close together as she glanced over the shelves of multicolored jars in the healing house, taking a mental inventory just as the letter asked of her. The afternoon sunlight happened to be shining through the window and lit the small labels on the jars, allowing Eliriael to read them with ease. As she did so, the jars of glass refracted the sunlight and the varying hues of the draughts within, painting the walls of the healing rooms with splashes of warm crimsons, teals, orange-yellows, and greens.
While the valley's healing house was well-stocked, Vanimar could not take from these stockpiles when they would have need of so many for their journey. For this reason, her lord had been wise and had written to her, hoping to begin gathering provisions for their own. Even if they could use supplies from the Last Homely House without being discourteous, their horses and supply carts could not afford the luxury of carrying these aesthetically-pleasing, but rather large, glass jars. Eliriael's brows knit further together and her lips straightened out into stern lines as she continued to read more and more labels on the jars and satchels of herbs. Neither was the valley well-equipped with medicines that would be needed in the face of the dangers that lurked within Mirkwood. Some of the injuries and maladies they could expect to find upon their particular road to war were not the ones often treated in these houses of healing, and they would need to be prepared with medicines of different kinds.
Concerned with the lack of appropriate healing supplies for their upcoming journey, Eliriael retreated to a small table beside the window. Pulling up a pile of parchment and her quill and ink from the drawer beneath, she sat down to write letters to her friends in Bar-en-Vanimar, requesting their expertise and help. The refracted warm colors continued to dance across her cheeks the rest of the afternoon as she wrote until the sun descended below the windowsill.
