If things go as they have, in another day or two, I will be finally ready to begin my journey back to Ost Guruth, there to continue to rest and heal my shattered leg, but at least in better company. Which is not to say excellent company. My tribemates at Ost Guruth are dour, and there will be no more dancing there than in the Forsaken Inn, but at least the air is wholesome and the skies clear. And the people will be my people, prickly as sage-bush in winter, but familiar, and sympathetic. And perhaps they will have some work I can do, even if nothing more than sorting through the reports of the other scouts, or folding cloaks.
The last few days have seen my leg strengthen (after I'd become more concerned that it never would), to where I can walk all the way to the shattered bridge without a rest, slowly, but steadily. This is well because I can get far enough from the Inn to play the lute without enduring more grimaces from Glynn Harper. There's no question my skill with the lute leaves something to be desired, and no one wants to listen to my practicing, let alone my attempts to invent a tune of my own. But the way he glares at me, you'd think I was playing a scratchy washtub with an angry lynx. My songs may lurch from time to time over an unsteady bit of meter, and I've been known to finger the string at the wrong position now and then, but my tunes are still sprightly and mostly correct.
Getting out of the Inn also affords me the luxury of smoking my pipe in peace. My fellow scout brought me back not just a pouch from my own private supply, but having found that pouch scanty, he took it upon himself to purchase several others for me, taking pity on my misfortune. Or perhaps his motivation was simpler than that, hoping to gain my company for the night. Whatever his reason, I was grateful both for the pipe-weed (and the variety of varieties to sample), and the companionship he offered.
The latter particularly since the Inn has been even more Forsaken than usual. It seems with the cold weather returning, travelers are keeping snug in their homes, or at least avoiding the drafty Inn. I have scarcely seen a single soul, and none who lingered more than the time it took to discover just how bad the food is. At first I'd thought winter was the best time to be trapped indoors nursing a broken leg, since the warmer seasons afford more outdoor opportunities I would be deprived of; but now I question this conclusion, since winter makes the indoor time all the more lonesome.
I even look forward to seeing that crotchety old taskmaster Frideric. How dire must my fate hang over me if I think even on his dour countenance with anticipation. No doubt Anlaf's ale is making me ill with that perverse complexion of thought that addles the senses. I must away, before I am lost to the gloom like the others! Soon, by the light of the moon, I will be homeward bound.
