Aeruthuil

I have been more open than I should have been. I have thrown caution to the wind and hurled myself into recklessness. 

I asked the Hooded Man for his name.

My hand trembles with frustration as I write this now. I cannot be so careless. To know a name is to see a face when you close your eyes. To carry a memory when you are far away. To wonder about someone's well being, to wish them good fortune, to worry about their safety.

I have not told my name to anyone since leaving home. 

"Home". It was not my home. Was it? 

I have taken a room at the Prancing Pony inn. I do not know how long I might stay, or how long my business will keep me here. It is a charming little village, despite its wariness of outsiders. Cormac has remained outside the walls, and I am glad. There are moments where he will listen and obey, but they are few. 

The day altogether had only been somewhat fruitful. Though I only wished it would have been more.

Many things had gone on today that I felt like my head could just explode. I mean, it had started out sort of nice but then it got down to being bizarre.

Found:

Another one.

Where do all these Ranger-types come from? Are they hatched in a communal pool brimming with superiority complexes and reared on delusions of grandeur? When they're not appearing out of nowhere trying to kill me in an effort to "protect" the discarded relics of their long since abandoned piles of rubble, they're trying to lecture me on how truly amazing they are.

Hah... Guess I am sort of alone now other than having Ghost around with me. Here's what happened.

Of course, earlier, there was this sort of near-fight happening that I got involved with. Supposedly, this one masked man was being stupid of trying to pick a fight with a Watcher, who soon introduced himself to me as Adalbart as soon as things cleared up. But let me get to the part where I say that I am alone.

((Funny enough, that song was titled as such that I have heard playing at a certain part of this post. XD))

"Running makes it look very bad...," said Brywulf, watching her. "You need to just explain the situation."

"The hobbit...," said Bambidal, shaking her head. "They will never believe me!"

"The hobbit..?" repeated Rizan to himself.

Ah, right... Chrissy...

Rizan had made his way to the Pony though for some reason, something told him to go to the back of the inn. He had done so and in result, he had found Bambidal.

"Are you alright?" asked Bambidal.

"You they' stop tha' elf!" came a voice behind him.

"I didn't...," said Bambidal, looking at Rizan. "I didn't I swear... I couldn't have..." She looked at the group behind him. "Raven...was stabbed."

She looked at the knife in her hand.

((The lettering is crisp, clear, and fluid, it was obvious it was not written by Ayla's hand. The page sits under a grave marker.))

Left to the sands at such a young age as the Variag describes it, abandoned by her mother whom her master later bid her to murder in order to prove her worth and her loyalty. It is perhaps unsurprising that the dark skinned beauty I have come to know is so cold. Unfeeling. And yet sympathy stays my blade. I have for long enough in the past played judge, jury and executioner when the darkness took me. At first hunting down individuals myself. Then in the hiring of a murderer I thought I could control when my face had begun to be too well known to do so effectively.