Another day's march has led me to the vast green fields of the Brown Lands. Wilderland is at my doorstep now, but one danger now makes room for another, for these lands are still treacherous to unwary travellers. Wild beasts, tall unsavoury folk, a dark and unending forest and of course wood elves... I bloody hate wood elves! Rude and pointy-eared like many of their kin, but unreasonable as well. I would not venture into Mirkwood lest I wish to spend my last days in an elven dungeon.
But I have little choice. The only one I might be able trust with translating these texts calls it his home. Who would want to live in a place like that? I will never understand, but the elf told my cousin Fruni that if he should ever find his way to these woods, he would merely need to blow this strange whistle. It is made from a type of black wood not found in the world now-a-days. Hardly any noise comes out of it too, so I wonder if this elf had truly meant for us to find him if needed. Perhaps it is but a ruse, a filthy trick to bring me to an early grave. Who knows what this elf has been planning in the dark? And who knows what else might be roused by its silent tunes? Mirkwood is hardly the place to start whistling a song!
All will be revealed in due time.
