Binebole Wood

"By Mahal's whiskers!! What have I been drinking?" Midarin groaned and grunted while he stretched and held his head as if it was about to fall off. The pain of his aching skull throbbed like there was a nasty Orc drumming away in his ear.
As Midarin grunted low some more, while carefully stretching his arms, the cracking of his joints could be heard as clear as a bell, growing louder and louder in his head.

(In a cloth-covered book, written in brown ink... The squared runes of Khuzdul look almost jagged in this angular hand.)