A series of written thoughts stashed away in a box of parchment, written meticulously and precisely, as if the writer had taken great pains to make their handwriting as legible and clear as possible. The tone of this entry veers between light-hearted and somewhat somber, implying mixed feelings.
Outsiders sure are a queer folk.
I mean. They are. Some of them are said to come from the Southeast, others claim to come Southwest. Then there are those from the Northwest. The Northeast. Somehow, everyone of those bloody adventurers manages to find their way onto the Greenway or the East Road and winds up in Bree, where they either bring joy or great sorrow to the townfolk. I suppose I shouldn't be to lay blame though; Trade is important to the town after all, and we can't constantly be shutting ourselves in from the outside world, can we now? Dwarves offer interesting wares, Hobbits provide cheer, Men are simply men, going wherever needed, bringing a little of everything, and Elves... well... why would those pointy-eared fairies want to go to a little hovel town like ours? Certainly not to lord over us all, I hope.
They're also of many different backgrounds and personalities. Some are a bit more cynical. Others, optimistic and hopeful. Then there are those that are more grounded and adjust their expectations accordingly. And then there are the thieves, the murderers, and those preying on the poor folk that are left to fend themselves in the chill of the coming months. Tylva found it disgusting that the poor are often forgotten and sometimes even shunned by the Townfolk, and while I agree, who can blame them? We have our own troubles, every one of us, and with Folk mistrusting one another left and right, it's hard to tell whether a shred of kindness will be received warmly or exploited when it is given (She proceeded to lecture me on how the people of Wilderland took care of their own, but halfway through trying to explain how the people of Bree thought and acted, I gave up, and we concluded that the differences between her people and mine were too great to understand).
But, I am moving slightly off the original topic of outsiders. I talked about Loakee in a previous entry. Charming, well-spoken, and very eager and curious. Me, Tylva and him shared a table at the Pony last night and swapped tales. Loakee was very interested in Tylva's homelands, and Tylva was drunk. At some point we left her to brood by herself when it became clear that her mood was getting increasingly foul, so Loakee offered to accompany me to the Scholar's Stair. I took him through the more scenic route, describing some notable places like the market and the (dare I say famous) bridge going connecting the West Gate neighborhood to the walls upon which the Scholar's stairs sat. I invited him inside, and we talked.
It went well into the night. From showing him the bridge, he confided in me a previous fear of heights, which his father managed to train out of him by leaving him at a cliff's edge for two days. Two days! That was the first time I'd heard the man talking about himself and his personal life. We had a chuckle over it. As a lad, I particularly didn't enjoy heights myself, but it was oddly comforting to know that he was willing to talk about himself, as little as it was. As if he genuinely enjoyed my company and wanted to share something in turn. I wish he'd stop addressing me with 'Mister', however. It makes me feel old and too formal.
Once we were inside the archives, he questioned me on the fact that I was a blacksmith, despite my passion lying in books. I explained that while books were my passion, and in spite of being lucky enough to be taught to read and write, Blacksmithing was all I knew since I was old enough to take up the trade, and also a great passion of mine. I could pride myself in at least knowing I wouldn't have to rely on the seasons and the weather to see me through a harvest, and provide money for my siblings and my parents. Food is always in demand, but you can always count on a blacksmith to have pots and pans at hand. They still receive the money that I send them every month.
I got more insight into the man as he talked about his belief in passion being the thing that spurns people onwards. It was an interesting opinion, coming from him, but oddly fitting, given how enthusiastic and joyful he'd presented himself so far. I thought, it's not passion that drives me, it's the need for a warm bed, coin, and a roof over my head. I was fortunate that Master Hucklebush picked me up when he did. Too old. He said. But maybe salvageable. I am already standing on thin ice, what with beating up the drunk fellow that called me names and questioned my lack of interest in women.
Passion isn't something I can claim motivates me as much as it used to, back in the days of Ellie and Hudd. Stars, I miss them. Since last year, it's gotten harder every day to pick up books. Blacksmithing is manageable. The steady ring of the hammer gives me a familiar pattern to follow and execute - it's familiar and comforting. Predictable. It doesn't tell me to jump into the unknown and hope for the best. It gives me something to look forward to, because I know that the steady ring of the hammer will never falter as long as I'm the one wielding it. Books, however...
There's no one to read to. No one to teach. Hudd isn't here anymore, and neither is Ellie. I wonder what they're up to. The stories I read are cramming into my head, making it difficult for me to focus. Maybe I could read to Tylva? Or to Loakee? Would they even like that? Loakee, at least, seemed to like The Tale of the Lake Maiden when I told it. Tylva, well. She loathes Bree, so I'm not sure if she'd be privy to it's folk tales. She seemed interested enough in how our Festivals worked, at the very least.
It's all so tiring, it is. Stars, I was a wee bit tipsy back at the Scholar's Stair. Loakee said he finds me interesting. Me, a regular blacksmith who cowers at the flirtations of women, in his own words, me, compared to the hundreds of other adventurers that pass by every day. He confirmed that he wanted to lay every secret of mine bare. Find out just what the regrets are that I carry. As much as I would have liked to, and as trustworthy as he seems to be, how would I know if he wouldn't go running for the hills as soon as I've told my tale?
By Barliman's beard, it scares me.
