A lull in my duties has finally arrived. After several treks into the hills north of town, the supplies have all been delivered to my brethren, and their weary thanks was more than enough to make the tiring work worthwhile. I told them of the tracks I had seen, and the distant smoke, and they assured me that they were already aware of a small, but worrying goblin camp, off to the east towards Kingsfell. My path back to town had to go in a wide arc to stay well out of the way, but caution is always better than haste.
And now, an evening to rest, with a proper bed and a desk and a candle by which to write. I find myself still drawing, and each piece is slowly - very slowly - showing progress from the ones before. Still, it is a way to pass the time, and the slow, studied scratch of charcoal against parchment seems to quiet my thoughts. Perhaps I shall show my sketches to my grey-eyed companion when next we meet.
I don't suppose my path will cross again with the pleasant stranger (I do recall the young lady in the tavern introducing him as "Jarn", though who knows what sort of strange name that might be?), though I have him to thank for encouraging me to take up this peculiar hobby.
There is work yet to do on the morrow. I am to return into the hills and find a spot from which to watch the goblin's movements, until this dark threat can be eliminated.
