Dagramir

Dagramir,

It may seem strange that I choose to do this. It certainly feels odd to me, but I felt it necessary. Hopefully you'll see why and not just dismiss me or this missive. Although, do feel free to burn it after reading.

Found:

Resolve.

He stole my bedroll. He stole my bedroll! I laughed until tears leaked from the corners of my eyes when I realised that.

Lacking anything warm or comfortable to protect my flesh from the rocks of the roads, I decided to go into town and see if I could find him to ask what he'd done with it. Of course he was nowhere to be found. I did, however, find a flyer documenting an inn just outside of town. Perhaps the rooms would be cheaper there?

Found:

A new direction!

Well, yestereve was interesting in several ways!

I spent it in the Prancing Pony for something to do. I can't say that I was expecting to meet that pretty little Gondorian again and I certainly wasn't looking for him. But nor can I say that I regret having a second encounter.

Found:

A momentary distraction.

Bree, Oh Bree. I wish I could say I loathed you but, in truth, you're just sort of there. Your mud, your stench, your cobbles and dun coloured everything, it all seems to exist solely for the sake of not leaving too wide a space on the map. Subsequently, I harbour no feelings for you whatsoever, good or ill. My ambivalence toward you is only matched by your overall blandness.

Sun-down, the hustle and bustle of Bree-town so prominent in the day of craftsmen, labourers. Market traders and the steady sound of hooves upon the cobbles as well as wagon wheels turning has faded. Lamplighters attend their duties in order to provide the faint glow needed for those coming out of the Inn of the Prancing Pony in the early-hours. Shadows creep softly over the cobbled streets and a flaxen haired young man walks them and he looks upwards, looming ahead of him the Trader's Gate which comes closer into view.

Sunlight finally breaks through the cloud of mist that inhabited the small hide-away's main window, and rays of light flood into the room. A mess, by all accounts. Scraps of text, and books, lay scattered across a desk. A pot spilling its inky contents onto a parchment which may have held information one could deem important, but now was  blotched with black. Words lost to the will of the void. As the light works its way steadily into the room, caution thrown to the wind as the room's contents are revealed to the world, a scarred body lay still upon the bed.

Nothing quite like the kick of whiskey, eh? Nothing quite comes as close anymore, ‘less I have a blade in my hands. Perhaps the kick of life, but, recently I've found myself less 'kicked' and more stampeded upon by horde of, let's say less than pleased, oliphaunts. But, I digress, I can't say things haven't been interesting lately.

Full moon. Midnight. A few ragged breaths shake their way out into the crisp air of Bree. Spring was in full bloom. There was a lightness to the usually turbulent town. Talk of the upcoming festivities had lightened those whose moods had been soured by the recent civil unrest. But, between the peaceful windows, deserted stalls, and the usual drunkards stumbling their way out of the Prancing Pony, walked a figure. A figure marred with death itself.