Journal Entry: 4th Day of Harvest Moon, Year of the Whispering Willows
The stars twinkle over Misthallow tonight, yet their gleam only mocks my heavy heart. A chill has settled not just in the air but deep within my soul. What once felt like a home—a small haven by the river with laughter and light—is now just shadows and silence. I can’t remember when it began, this creeping darkness; perhaps it was when the whispers grew louder, and the no-good scoundrels took root in the very corner of our Village Square.
I never thought I’d find myself on this path. A river hobbit should be busy tending his garden, dreaming of far-off lands, and sharing stories with good friends over a cozy supper. But tonight… tonight I stand on the precipice of something else entirely. The line between right and wrong has blurred like the fog rolling off the river after dusk. They had a way of convincing me—those thieves I once scorned; their persuasive words wound their way around my heart, tight yet oddly tempting.
As I pack my belongings, I can feel the weight of those choices. I used to treasure my kettle, always bubbling with the finest chamomile tea. Now? I reach instead for my swiftest pair of boots and the small dagger I kept hidden for “just-in-case” moments. Essential only. I can’t afford to hold onto anything that could tether me to my old life. The willowwood flute—with its sweet notes that once lured the evening fireflies—will be left behind, its melody now a haunting reminder of what was.
I tuck a sack of crisp river apples into my small knapsack; it will have to last me. The fabric is sparse, but durability is key. I can’t risk weight slowing me down in the moonlight, echoing my every footstep. I know the lanes of Misthallow like the back of my hand, but the watchful eyes have turned against me. Slipping between shadows—no longer just the playful antics of a mischievous hobbit but the furtive maneuvers of a thief, a desperate one at that.
With each step I take toward the riverbank, I’m filled with a heady mix of apprehension and thrill. This is a world I must navigate now, where stealth replaces honor and cunning feeds survival. To some, I may very well be a criminal, a villain who steals in the night. To me? Perhaps I'm simply the last hope for my own freedom, a chance to turn the tide against the current that threatens to drag me under.
I hear the soft lapping of water against the stones. It's a tune that calls me back to the river, my old friend, where I first learned the ways of the world. I will not forget who I was—this I vow. But the path ahead is laden with shadows, and I must embrace the night to reclaim my fate and, perhaps in time, my feet might again dance in the sunlight of good-natured mischief.
As I slip onto the familiar stones near the water, I know I am leaving Misthallow behind, yet I carry its spirit with me, a flicker of hope beneath the cloak of darkness. I may be a thief now, slipping into the noiseless depths of regret, but I will carve my own destiny, even if it is paved with stolen moments and whispers in the dark.
Here’s to new beginnings—the foolishness of a river hobbit turned rogue. May the currents guide me, and may I find my way back to the light one day.
Yours in the dark,
Cylo Banks
