Home. Such a long way off, across a long and bitter road. How cruel could fate be that only I arrived here, by chance, while the others did not? And then make me unable to reach home? My hand shake as I write this, for it is cold here, or I am cold. I can not tell the difference right now. It seems to be a fever, like some that took little Leofwynn. And barely walking she was, too.
Perhaps when I return, these notes will be useful in creating some grand song about whatever adventures that may befall me. Make the hardship somewhat worthwhile, I suppose.At least, these strangers here may at least know my journey and mourn me properly. I can write no more now. The quill grows heavy, and I am cold. So very cold. Perhaps on the morrow, I shall set out for this Bree town in hopes of find some means of alleviating whatever may ail me. For now though, I must get what sleep I can here this town, Coombe, they call it? I must move though, for they are already flooded with many refugees from a nearby village.
