Dear diary, I sit at another inn, but in a different part of Middle-Earth. It seems that inns have become a part of my life. The atmosphere here is odd. Maddoc is not Mr. Butterbur because he leers at me like I do not belong at his inn. Alas, I have endured worse than one man's disapproving stare. Tarsorel was kind enough to negotiate with Mr. Maddoc and found me temporary work. It seems he realized I don't like sitting still. My people are a people of action. Herdsmen, hunters, chieftains, the bitter men and women of Eriador. I digress this isn't meant to be an entry about my people's history. Writing is a gift from my ancestors I am certain that it was they who put me on the path to Nithron's camp during that first escape. That first test of endurance. I am glad that I was given the opportunity to learn from these old and wise people. Where most of my kind would see them as our oppressors I saw them as scattered people much like my own.
Scattered, and wandering, the only difference is that they are not lost. We the Dunlendings are lost. Searching for our place in Middle-Earth and during this search, there is much blood. Much fire. I wonder if we ever will want a king. A king that will unify us and not oppress us. Woe to our stubborn, stubborn, ways. I wonder what Salin will think of Eriador as she grows. Of our people, she will not be handed off at the first sign of womanhood. No. I refuse to allow my daughter to succumb to the same fate. No child should be without their mother. I know I keep saying it, but I am coming sweetheart. I am coming. Negath won't hurt you, she's too busy reveling in what is not hers. We are two women shamed by the man that we belonged to. Yet, it is no excuse, she will pay dearly. I do not care if Tarsorel wishes for a more gentle end. I am tired of being stepped on and overlooked by my own people. Until then I remain stoic. Standing, watching, waiting.
