Here marks the first entry of this journal, begun on the 27th of January.
After making my way finally to the Bree-lands, I have found a safe place along the western Archet hills to make camp. The presence of bear and wolf in this region is more prominent than I imagined, but they seem to be well-fed on the flesh of the orc tribes to the north. Still, I've had to turn away an unwelcome visitor or two from my firespit, but their aggressive company is preferable to that of bandits at the least.
I headed into the town of Bree today, where I put up my wares for auction and in return replenished my supplies, a purchase including this journal. Its simplicities began to remind me of old times. There was a band of minstrels stooped upon a fountain's rim, to be heard nearly across the town. People were going about their daily lives, working, laughing; children were playing along the streets. At one point my waterskin slipped from my belt--the clasp has been coming loose--and a young girl picked it up and ran after me, shouting.
When I turned to her, she looked taken aback--as though I had shouted, though I said not a word. When I took the flask from her and thanked her with a smile, however, she relaxed immediately and smiled in return.
Perhaps spending so much time on my own has left me forgetting my face.
