Home

The damp, torn and dirty boot seeps traces of water out from it as another step is taken down the cobblestone path. Tired, green eyes lift up to the gate of Bree, while frail fingers grasp at the reins of his horse. Coarsely, he speaks, saying something to himself in a moment of hesitation, as though he himself can't believe it, his voice struggling to start with a forced whistle, "Hhh...Home."

Arenborn knocked on the door struggling to hide his broad smile. How long had it been? Three months? Four? It felt like it had been far longer. His fingers curled around the small bouquet of flowers he had picked on his way through their little village and he took a deep breath.

Oh give me a hole or a soft, grassy knoll,

Where the fox and badgers are seen,

Where the sheep roam secure drinking water so pure,

Dear Diary,

So, if I want this to catch the eye of some future Treasure Hunter, it must have a title. Since not everyone in Bree-land knows their letters, and I want it to be clear I do—my dad taught me mine—I've decided to literally alliterate my literacy. Therefore, this dynamic diary of doubts, deliberations, and dramatic descriptions of daring do's shall henceforth be known as: Rarely wRitten Random Ramblings! Of course, being the serious person I am, I may later decide that such a title is simply too silly to keep. But we'll see!

Sunlight filtered down through the budding branches of the Yellow Tree. Jonn squinted up, smiling at having the warm spring breeze on his neck. He looked back at Glorwen, making sure the lead-line between them didn't get caught as they maneuvered around the large trunk. Content she was following safely, he repositioned his aching backside and faced forward again, giving Scorch's mane a playful stroke whether he liked it or not.

Awoken from an uneasy sleep, Jonn blinked an eye open to look blearily around the room. Light from the flames danced upon the far wall. Old, wooden timbers held up the second story above his head. A couple of small rooms led off from the common room where he lied. He idly stroked his fingers through the course fur of the bear-skin rug upon which he slept.