Dear Diary,
I apologize for writing in you when morning has not yet touched my window, but I have had the most shockingly bad dream while taking my rest.
It seemed to me that I was in a dark wood, where the very trees had leaves that scratched me, utterly lost and alone.
Then a horde of yrch burst out of the woods, snarling in their hideous language! I thought I should be killed, or worse. But before they could reach me, a big fierce hound leapt right in front of me and laid about with its huge paws and sharp teeth until it had slain the foul creatures, every last one.
But what was this? The hound too fell over, sorely wounded by the scimitars of the brutes. Instantly I leapt to its side, wishing to cure its hurts. I put my hand to its throat, moving aside a swan-badge hanging from its collar to do so, but -- the hound was dead!
I am no Luthien, to be protected by a Huan in my hour of need. Yet I fear I woke myself with my own real shrieking, so loud that I am surprised Elloen did not hear me down the street.
As I write these words, I have a terrible suspicion. I do not wish to think this dream an omen, Diary. And yet... words have meanings, do they not?
Surely it is just a dream.
Surely it is just a dream.
SURELY IT IS JUST A DREAM! SURELY IT IS JUST A DREAM! SURELY --
