Penned in precise and evenly lined sentences, a blank page near the middle of a slightly scuffed, top-grain leather journal is newly inscribed. If one were to flip past the filled pages to the very beginning, one would find the first page titled with: Bernie Tweed, Bree-land followed by a series of odd symbols.
23 Thrimidge
Home, Bree-land
√ Nailed wood board up over broken window. Real eyesore but all that can be done til I can find a glassblower worth a farthing.
→ Set out all rugs to air out and scrub the floors. Odour still pungent in the house.
• Started letter to Sanders but must set aside on account of having to wash all the damn linens.
≡ Think I’m going to finish off what dregs there’s left in my keg tonight after sundown. On the porch of course since the stench of the house still’s unbearable.
Made a real bad decision a couple days back and there’s no coming back from it now. The elfin lady, Mrs Indoril, that I spent several days in the company of - well, I didn’t think things through clearly and wound up insulting her instead of what I wanted to do, which were spend more time with her. I mean she were a widow and an elf so there were already a huge obstacle for just a plain old beekeeper round Bree to overcome, but then whatever sliver of ice she let melt enough to look kindly on me for a time, I went and spoiled anyhow.
First drink, I’m toasting to her good luck in whatever far-off war she’s heading for. You’ll not be around to hear it, Mrs Indoril, but hope you find whatever does your heart good someday.
Pasted below his entry is a folded parchment, written in another hand.
