Entry Fourteen: Whisper in the Wind
One has lived in solitude for some time, after the woman known as Caithrin abruptly called an end to her training. Yet something unsettling has reached one, which has made him raise his sword once more. Rumour has traversed, as a whisper in the wind. Posters of one’s dreaded past, that last morning spent within the settlement of Ost Guruth. Wanted is what they read, for killing those who were corrupt. Many may see this as opportunity to find there fortune, yet the few who one has met… those who he considered “Friend”. May speak on one’s behalf… defending him…
One can take no risk. Those who have been to his home may have spoken of his whereabouts. At first light, one gathered his things. The armour that one once hid wwwwbehind now returns upon his flesh. The Grey Warden shall ride once more. Preparing Illith with what supplies one could carry, it was time to set off on the next adventure.
Before exiting the gate, one would take the time for one last glance at the land his beloved would once call home. That which he had done himself for some time. Someday he shall return, one has no doubt… but not for some time. One shall take the path South, through that of the Shire. Hoping that what has spread may speak no truth.
It was obvious that eyes began to linger, as one stopped a brief moment within that of Michel Delving. Many scattered to their homes, hiding behind stalls and kept their distance. Half-lings are peculiar things at their best… but never have they shied away from one mere man. One would flee quickly; hoping that of a bounder had yet spread word across the Brandywine.
It would lead one to avoid that of the path passing Bree. Instead he would take a longer detour, through that of the Old Forrest and eventually the Barrow-downs. A dark and treacheries path for anyone, including that of one’s “capabilities”. Illith would refuse to enter, so one would travel by foot throughout, taking her reigns and leading her through. We took the path alongside the water, leading to that of Tom Bombadil’s home. One knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Continuing onward, we would come across a small camp, on the outskirts of the Barrow-downs and our resting place for the evening.
One was exhausted, but thought it wise to write once more within you. It was always that of a favourite pass time of her. Lirita loved to record entries often. Perhaps it is time, one takes to such a hobby, not knowing when such liberty may be taken from him.
