The charcoal strokes of a neat hand run across a page of parchment toward the center of the journal. Slightly smudged, yet legible.
21st of Wintring, Midday, Trailing a Great Beast
As I write this, I am eating the last of the stale crusts and salted pork from my pack. The taste is bitter, and I am surrounded by the growing stench of the wolf pelt I took two nights ago. I dare not linger too long in one place, lest the poorly dried skin draw unwanted attention from the beasts who share my forest floor.
My journey began three nights hence, departing from Adso’s camp, where I traded coin and some trophies of low value for fresh water and food. Their supplier drives a hard price. At the time it seemed fortuitous to go without, and keep my pockets fatter, but the sharp pangs in my middle have begun to complain otherwise. I think I shall harvest some mushrooms, and take them back to Bree for Mandrake to inspect. I never noticed their kind before, back in the western reaches of the forest. Here, the roots run differently. And the beasts—how they differ from those of my last hunt.
I wounded a great black bear not one morning ago, and I trailed him deep into the darkening wood through the night and into morning. The night here is no darker than the day, the boughs of these ancient trees so eagerly intertwining that I must instead rely on scattered birdsong in the forest’s eaves to tell dusk from dawn.
I must continue on. This creature is playing games with me, but no longer. This shall be a lucrative venture indeed.
A.W.
