cesistya

After a few days Miss Cesistya said as Mister Brockhouse were well enough to talk with, but needed another day afore he could go for a short walk, and then only by pony or waggon. So we decided to go to Staddle to speak to this Forsythia Attereeve our own selves.

Home again! And with it, all the mixed feelings one would expect. A bit of melancholy that our trip is over, and the lazy, idyllic days of self indulgence are in the past. It is time for me to head back to the barrack stables, and back to Neyaa's farm, while my beloved heads out each day with pickaxe in hand. 

Ow, ow, ow! Would be nice sooner or later that I would stop burning either my food or my hands for once so that I could write more frequent without needing to write as much as I did last time. Might as well do  it either way since apparently, I've no choice.

Hell, I was so busy with stuff that I didn't get the chance to catch up on my journal. Things had been...more or less hell to say the least. I suppose I'll write a few things about them though keeping some things to myself in fear of this journal, as unlikely as it could be of someone were to find it, would actually be looked at.

I meant to write this recently but I have forgotten to. Anyways, despite of a certain person, a few days ago, I had met up with Bryn and Conrob again while I was speaking to Steven! How long had I seen them last? Well... Formally without having  something happening like what happened to Aallan the other day at the Boar Fountain. It definitely had been way too long. It was definitely a relief to see their faces again.

The hammer fit well into his hand, the warm wooden handle bending to the will of the ancient Master who had used it to craft many things, both of beauty and of death. Solemnly it was raised, and for the first time in this Age it fell like bells ringing against glowing steel. Flakes of ash splintered from the bent ingot and littered the anvil, the old familiar stain, the old familiar shape. Again and again the hammer-bell tolled, and the blade that was its toil came into view. Every chime was a funeral dirge, and the Master wept.

Where, oh, where would I begin with this journal? Hell, it's been such a long time since I have written in it at all! Things both bad and good had been happening and it had been all in some sort of blur more or less.

It had been weeks and one dead half orc since Aallan last saw Dufr in the Lone Lands.

    The day after I had written about the last events had been fruitful in a way.