I have had this empty tome in the bottom of my pack for what must be ages. I can hardly recall now who it was that gave it to me. Somewhere along one of my countless sorties to the north, I assume. My kinsmen would surely give me odd looks to see an old straw-hair bent over a book and writing.
I do not know what I should record here. The tale of my life? No. No one would wish to read a litany of poor choices and bitter regrets, least of all me. I do not consider myself a particularly hopeful man, but I could at least make an effort to leave behind some memories and perhaps a useful anecdote or two. Not that anyone will ever read these words. But life is unpredictable, if nothing else.
Coin grows thin at the end of winter. So few people have need of my services in the snow and mud. I am yet able to take odd jobs. Best not to think of the day when I can no longer be of any use to anyone. A woman in the Snowbourn meadhall said I was not old at all. Of course, she was just being kind. I'd like to believe her sweet words, but my aching knees say otherwise.
It will be spring soon. Once the sun thaws the land (not to mention my joints), things will look up again.
