Scribbling away in a small leather-bound journal, Nihtwulf munches on an apple, while now and then dipping his feather into the small bottle of ink he quite carefully has placed beside him.
Five years have gone by, some faces have faded while others still stand before me as if it was just this past night we shared mead in the hall, or this past day we shed orc blood together. I remember some fondly, some... not so much.
The time I have spent here in the north has mellowed me to some though, whom erstwhile I would have scorned and bid good riddance. I understand better their reasoning, their loyalties and their desires. Others I must admit I have come to miss, like the fair maiden who sang and played music in the mead hall, I can still see the way her flaxen hair fell over her shoulders, a strand falling in front of her eye as she bent low over her harp. Yet I cannot for the life of me, remember her name, it began with Fae.. Ach, perhaps she still roams there, and I may come across her again. I would so very much like to see her, and to listen to her songs again. Something to look forward to as I make my way south.
Quite a bit to go still, and I have yet to decide where to make camp tonight, though there are still hours until the sun sets.
Nihtwulf blows on the page to speed the drying of the ink, then softly folds it and places it back in the saddlebag, picking out another apple he lets the horse munch upon it as he places the bag on the back of it. "Time to get going again..." Nihtwulf mutters to himself as he mounts the horse and leads it south.
