It's been quite a while since I placed quill to parchment. It feels like I'm an old friend returning. There's been a lot plaguing me recently, something to which I can't precisely place my finger on. It's difficult to explain, for me to get these thoughts and feelings to make it down to a simple language that's at least more comprehensible than the shitstorm of one's own inner turmoil. At least you can then try to understand it. then. Yet, still, words are such a feeble device. It sells everything short. But now as my ramblings consume the pages while my mind is comfortably occupying the pleasantries of bitter ale and intoxication, I find myself in need of contemplation. What is there to say, seems always be the question. Lies be fickle - lies be fine - lies be the end of mine. I can remember my mother saying once. It's strange how some things have the knack, after forgetting almost all of your past, you can still remember so vividly.
The room feels too big. There's a lone table that sits perched masterfully in the middle of the room. Around it it's empty except for the shadows that ghosts against the walls and wooden floor of the chamber, dancing ominously to the cackle of the fire. I don't understand this insistent restlessness I am experiencing. Its frustrating. I wish I knew what it was. It's like a nagging, fretful rat that pries loose your mind, frays and shreds, piece by agonizing piece, the very thing which is you. It feels as if I'm drowning in a lake of lethargy, desperately swimming to escape a dull existence. Yet I thank the gods, if there are, for my good fortune when I climb into bed next to a woman I love so dearly. Piperel is something I never thought will happen to me in a million years – still, here I sit in front of this fire with a mug of ale next to me, in a room of a house almost my own, waiting for me is a beautiful woman that loves me, and if that's not enough, in the other room her grandma snores peacefully. Why, do I ask, am I restless; isn't this what we all want? A decent and uncomplicated life, filled with warm contentment, and comfortable. I should just try and shove this turbulent agitation aside, I don't want Piperel to start thinking it has anything to do with her.
I've been hearing troubling rumors circling around the recent raids in the farms surrounding Bree, of Southrons descending on farms and fields, going on killing sprees. But never did I expect it to reach out its talons so close to home. Piperel's farm has been sacked but at least those of her family that was there survived the brunt of the attack, even her grandmother... which Corrinne and Corrben dumped here by us. I know Corrben's busy but why should Piperel look after her, conveniently leaving him with no worries? Could have asked at least, couldn't they. Then again I guess I don't have much say in the matter, anyway. It's still not my house while owing Corrben so much.
The plans for the pipeweed is coming along slowly, taking some form. If I can just manage to focus on it, once again ply my mind onto something which gives me at least a respite from over-thinking. It's only my own foolishness anyway. Perhaps this is what they mean by bloodlust, this shameless, uncertain and aimless anger that eats away at your very soul.
