assassin

The night was dreary and miserable, the rain sweeping in off the ocean appeared to be unending and unrelenting, despite the harsh desert that the port city was nestled in. A young beggar boy, an escaped slave, sat curled up with his back pressed against the wall of a building. He sat in the muddy streets, filled with grime and filth from animals and humans. 

It has been many weeks since writing in this journal, my hand bleeds anew with every letter I scrawl. Bandages fail to contain my words as I write in this book. It has not been a good road to recovery, neither has it been for the sake of another at the expense of my health. I can only assume her vacant expression and cold disposition will curtail my passive aggressions until I can draw strength in my arm again. 

      Torrigan marched with the recruits under his command from the West Gate of Bree, along the highway of the Southern Bree-fields. They marched in file, each of them wary; the findings in Bree and the attitudes of the townsfolk had unsettled them. Torrigan had much on his mind as he walked in dusk's light on the ancient cobbled road, between the ruins and green rolling hills. Aside from the occasional howl of a wolf, who welcomed the oncoming night, there was no further sign of any trouble.