Journal Entry: 25th of Autumn's Rest, Year of the Whispering Willows
Dear Journal,
Today, the morning air felt different, laden with a restlessness I could no longer ignore. As I sat by the riverbank, watching the soft ripples tease the edges of the world I’ve known my whole life, the whispers of Misthallow grew heavier. My familiar surroundings, especially the gentle swaying of the reeds, felt like a comforting melody turned discordant. Perhaps it was the shivering leaves above or the unseen shadows in the water, but something called to me—something deeper than the allure of the river's cool embrace.
It all began when Old Thistlefoot, the local gossip, trotted into my favorite tea shop, his eyes wild like a startled river fish. A shipment of fine stoneweed had gone missing, and with it, the town's only supply of dreamy draught. To think that anyone would dare to pilfer from our sleepy village sent ripples of unease coursing through me. Stoneweed is a rare treasure, you see—an herb that brings tranquility and clarity to our slow-paced lives. Yet, what worried me more was the talk of shadowy figures lurking in the woods and whispers of a criminal gang reaching out a greedy hand toward our precious Misthallow.
I’ve enjoyed the simple pleasures of life here—the scent of wildflowers, the warmth of sunlight dancing through the branches, and the quiet hum of the river. But now, even those comforts felt tainted with uncertainty. I could feel a mystery unfolding, and I wondered: if I stay, will I merely be another hobbit watching the world pass by while the tide of trouble rises?
And so, the choice bloomed in my heart—a calling louder than the call of home. I must uncover this mystery! I can’t let fear or complacency drown the well-being of my fellow Misthallow folk. Perhaps it’s madness to think I could play the role of detective, but maybe it’s the kind of challenge that’s been missing from my life. Coming from a line of tinkers and storytellers, I feel it’s time I become part of my own tale—a tale that might even rival those spun by the crackling hearths of my ancestors.
There’s a whole expanse of river beyond our village, filled with winding paths and dark forests that I’ve only ever heard about. My pack is already half-full, ready to set me on an adventure. I’ve decided to leave at dawn. I think I’ll follow the river upstream; perhaps it will guide me like a vein through the heart of this newfound mystery. It will hurt to leave the comforts that have always cradled me, but I must trust that discovery awaits.
Tonight, I shall pack a few of my favorite things—my trusty flint, a handful of berry scones (they’ll keep my spirits up on the road), and the little wooden carvings I’ve made of the village—tokens of memories to carry with me. I shall miss the laughter of my friends at the watering hole and the warmth of the sun-drenched glade, but the thrill of untangling a thread of intrigue tugs insistently at my heart.
May tomorrow bring courage enough to unravel the truths hiding beneath the waves. Here goes nothing!
Yours,
Cylo
