Travelling

On the roadside

The evening was bright, yet the mood was somber.  The sun was falling behind distant cliffs, painting the sky in fierce streaks of red and orange, the air was kind in that place and the craggy ground seemed to shield from the howling gales of wind. Despite its kindness, it was still a horrible place to die, far away from anything, left for wolves and birds with carrion as ones destiny.

Many days have passed since my last entry, and I have tried to deepen my conviction to not use up too much of this little journal too fast.
However, developments have been ongoing during the time the ink was absent from these pages. My exploration of this forest has led me deeper and deeper among the shadow of its trees, careful to not upset its sensitivities, yet determined regardless to find what ever knowledge it has to offer.

A few days have passed since I last sat down to fill these pages. I would have written every single day, yet I wish to restrain myself some, to not fill this small journal too fast.

Yesterday I arrived in Bree, and my first action was to take almost all of father's scrolls and books to the local archives. The scholars there thanked me greatly and rewarded me with a small amount of coin, less than I had hoped for, yet I shall comfort myself with the thought that surely father's collection will bring benefit to the local people.
Motte certainly seemed relieved to find me emptying the saddle bags, however, they will be filled again, though hopefully nothing returning to them will weigh as much as those books.

(A small leather bound journal of a reddish brown, some pages previously having been torn from it, as well as the first pages filled with some notes about plants, some unfinished poems, and a list apparently written for a shopping trip to the market. The following lines, the first of what appears to have turned into a diary.)

Where to begin, or how to begin more like it, i dont remember last time i have took ink and quill and written down my thoughts, matter the fact i do not know why i do it even now. Perhaps i am simply writing this to keep my memories intact, or perhaps to store a little piece of myself someplace to remind myself, or to be reminded off...reminded off what i wonder.