With the month gone, the harvest have also. It is, according to my great-grandfather, called after a sickle in his native language, as the sickles sing during. And so, the seed sown has been collected and is being used.
I've promised myself I would make way home when the harvest ends. That was the thought the man I know as Oakenhaft had. And while meeting him again was a joyful event, while this land strikes me as free and untamed... I do not feel at home. I could, that much I am certain of, but I can feel that anywhere.
But yet, I want to stay here. A force... no, a thought drives me to remaining in this place, a premonition that this may be where I belong. But in it, I see hatred aplenty. Hatred for the fair-haired horsemen of Rohan, distrust to any duvodiad, that including myself. It is not unlike Bree-land in that regard, a thought which amused the man quite a lot.
Do I stay or do I go? I have yet to find my answer - and if I do not find it quickly, the weather shall answer it for me. I best start searching in the earnest, then.
Not much more to write today.
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The harvest has come
Submitted by Kestrea on September 30th, 2019
