Strange are the times of late.
As I sit in the Comb and Wattle, my new haunt; being frustrated by the damned hoard of silver-voiced pointy-ears in the Prancing Pony, I wonder at the state of the land.
Brigands and highwaymen sit and talk with the Watchmen. Blackbent, a calm man who intrigues me; he does not match the title he has as leader of the Brigands, and Calilla, the woman from far away Khand, swap merry words with the innkeepers, Watchmen and common folk alike. A strange and startling thought it is that not long ago I was going to collect the bounty on their heads. How odd that seems now, as I listen to them talk quietly in the corner as lovers do. They do not seem to be bad folk, not as I know such.
Perhaps I am losing my edge, as I grow older and more time passes between battles. Yet all the same, I am troubled. Thoughts of fire, of the Red Queen creep into my mind. Of old friends, fallen or disheartened. Of dischord and dissent amongst the Free, and of my wife, Debellora and the company she keeps.
Her Roadhouse Inn has been refurbished, largely thanks to me and a few old friends. It is a homely house, with fine ale and good service. Number 6 Chestnut Street, Luddean is where she chose to raise the timbers and it has become a lively place, where all those who would seek to be away from the noise of Bree and the law have come to rest and talk.
With any luck business will be good for her, though I worry that she might have to shoo away some of the younger, more amorous men, being the beauty she is. She can handle worse than that though, and if she can't, Angrenduin will shine.
Peace for now then, a time to relax, better make the most of it.
