Kithri

Bíld son of Bóurr to Miss Rubiginosa of the Fallohides fond greeting and regards, from beneath the mysterious canopy of the Trollshaws.

[The hand that writes today is not as upright and elegant as it usually is. It is tired, a bit wobbly.]

Entry the fifth.

While I was smoking — or at least feigning a smoke — with friends at the Prancing Pony, a Woman arrived with an arrow-wound, apparently received during an encounter with a thug on the Bree-lands' roads. As there were a number of experienced healers present, I was needed only as an assistant, though I would like to flatter myself and say I was of a little bit of use.