Whimsies by Grundy

Wampum

Itarillë nearly dropped the shell – she had picked it up thinking it might be a jewel like Atto said had been on the strands in Alqualondë – before Cirlim spoke.

“Oh, lucky! That’s a good one to save!”

She looked at her friend in surprise. He was one of the Nevrastim, the elves who made their home on these shores. The shell was shiny, worn by wave and weather to near transparency, but she wasn’t sure what she would do with it.

“If you don’t start saving good ones like that, you’ll never have anything pretty to wear – or to trade.”