Day 30 at Duin Dae
Even as I lay here in my bunk, my muscles burn with a fire that has not extinguished in many days. As my fingers grip quill to pen this, blisters burn, worn into my skin from long hours training with the blade. My shield arm is marked with burns and bruises, byproducts of the straps that hold my aegis to me.
I greatly underestimated Aren Sornic. In fact, I greatly underestimated the whole of the garrison here, which is a testament in and of itself, as I had thought them proficient upon arrival. My training with the Marchwardens was difficult, but manageable, paced for the long life of an elf. Here at Duin Dae, the training is unimagineably rigorous, a trial more tasking than any I have faced. Long before Foredawn we rise, eat our morning meal, and then it is off to the training yard, where we drill with blade and shield in group combat. At noon we take a lunch, lembas bread for all but the most stubborn of dwarves, and water drawn from the Great River itself. Then it's back to training, until long after the sun has fallen. The Watchers take their place on the walls, and we fall into bed for a few sweet hours before we are awakened again.
Aren Sornic is in charge of my Unit, as I have mentioned before. He is middle-aged, perhaps 45 summers (or winters, by his measure). He has fought a hundred battles against the goblins that roam the Northern ranges, and is called Aren Dwarf-friend by many here, a title bestowed with the highest respect by the dwarves of Gundabad. There is rumor that he once wandered as a dragon-slayer in those hills, but he does not speak of this. I would not doubt it, though. I have seldom seen such prowess with a spear, even amongst the most senior of the Marchwardens. He is a tough Captain, but fair, and pushes us to our limits without pushing us beyond them. I only hope the blisters begin to fade soon.
