A teasing promise of spring has arrived. A fire is not needed tonight. The stars are bright and clear overhead, and my cloak will suffice for warmth. These ruins are familiar, as I have camped here before, and they provide a tidy shelter from the wind, with a good view of the road below.
I began a new drawing, but it is giving me some difficulty. Perhaps it is the subject which I attempt to recall to mind. Why is it so hard for the fingers to trace what the heart sees? What is this disconnect between brain and hand?
I left the town behind without a backward glance. I'm sure I will set foot there again sometime. I met a friendly face or two, and shared some pleasant conversation beside a bright hearth, with a mug of cider or a bowl of pottage. What more could a soul want for than that?
I am eager for word of my friends to the north, and ready to lend what aid I can. The message I received most recently hints at a dire situation, so the quicker my feet carry me, the better.
