The door slowly creaks open to the dimly-lit room. A man steps in, ducking slightly under the low door, water dripping from the sodden cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. He turns, pulling a battered staff in behind him as he throws the door shut.
Silence at last.
He leans the staff into the corner almost reverently, taking care not to damage it. Gently, he shrugs the cloak from his shoulders and hangs it on the wall. Drips begin to roll down the wall.
These last weeks have been... strange, to say the least.
Taking flints from above the fireplace, he kneels down over the pile of wood. A moment passes, and slowly a warm glow spreads from within the logs and shavings. The man sits on his haunches, holding out his palms and watching the flame grow.
There was a woman I met in Combe. A soldier of sorts, travelling by the name Airlinn.
The man takes a pan from the rack, placing it on a metal grate over the fire. From within his robe he produces a small packet, wrapped in brown paper and tied by string. He carefully unties the string, and opens the packet.
I do not know what to think of her, as we did not meet often. We had met before, a week prior, and though I found her amiable enough I gathered she was a guarded individual.
Slices of meat are drawn from the packet into the pan, and soon the room smells of cooking meat. The man potters about the room, preparing other parts of his dinner and simultaneously clearing away notes and papers onto shelves.
She had the misfortune of delivering to me unwelcome news; my friend and teacher, Arcangar, is dead. I do not like to believe it and yet I know it must be true. My heart aches not only for myself but for her, for she appeared to know him well. Well enough to find and tell me, at least.
With his meagre meal of meat, herbs and potatoes finally cooked, he serves it up onto a plate and leaves it on the table. Before he can move to eat, he stows leftover ingredients in the underground pantry and locks it.
This was weeks ago, and by now I would have imagined she was once more unreachable.
He sits, silently, slowly eating his meal as he reviews the day in his mind. The freezing storm howls around the house, but the inside is placid and warm.
However, as I returned from an excursion into Dunland I encountered a Ranger who told me of the exploits of an adventuring company - heroes, by the sound of it.
The sound of rain on the window is disturbed. A shadow of noise races across the room. The man looks up from his reflections, and stares at the face. The bear stares back.
Normally I would think nothing of such news but, having met this woman... Airlinn... I cannot say why, but my curiosity is piqued.
The man moves cautiously to the door, and slowly opens it. He begins speaking; the bear pads slowly in and nuzzles his leg. Suddenly his eyes go wide.
In truth, I doubt it is her, but if by some chance of fate it is then I must do what I can to try and find her, if only to return her... gift.
The man mixes some oats and honey in a bowl, and sets it down for the bear. It laps happily away, curled up around the bowl by the fire. The man stares down at it, as he draws a beaten leather-bound journal in front of him.
I think I must set out for the Last Homely House tomorrow, in the hope that Lord Elrond may have some knowledge of them to confirm or deny my suspicions. I suppose I will have to take my new companion with me.
The candlelight flickers over table as the man retrieves an ink pot and quill from a desk in the other room. To the sound of the rain on the window and the bear's soft snores, the man begins to write.
