The Journal of Yurri and Turri
Beyond the Hedgewall
Entry Six Hundred and Ninety Five
Long have I stood within The Prancing Pony tavern, jerking my fat thumb at the parchment beside me to any who would meet my gaze. None have answered my call. The few who took minor notice were particularly unhelpful. The first, a wench, who simply pointed out error's of spelling. The second, the old man she abandoned me with, who knew not his rear from his head. The third, a recently acquired ally of mine by name of Woodham. Yet the contact he promised has not reached me by word or appearence, and so I assume this too to be a dead end.
For the now at least, it look's like I am not traversing beyond the Hedgewall. Many men-folk assume a Dwarf to have pockets filled with riches, with pure mithril thrown from my grubby hands to mark my trail across the World. Should I venture out there alone, the bandit's of the Bree-land will surely find me. It might be that I could slay one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight? But craven men travel in pack's, like astray, starved wolves. A bite by one I could tolerate. But with one for every limb, even this mighty Dwarf would be torn apart. Even if it did take three moon's passing's to rip my fat frame!
I am ashamed to say I considered hiring the members of The Bloody Dawn. Though I must say the thought was vanquished as quickly as it was conjoured. A gathering of boy's, whose villages all seem to have burnt down to the East, and so now have come to Bree to kill their kin, bed Troll's, and drink themselves to an early grave. It saddens me truely to think that this is the fate that has become of Tylan Hawthorn, one of my strongest Allies. How I would have tried to save him, had he wished to be saved. I dare say I would have slain every degenerate within that twisted Kinship.
I now hope to turn to better candidates, should any exist within this decrepid town. To gift a young warrior the honour of escorting Yurri, son of Turri, across the Bree-land, over the Brandywine and through the realm of the Little Folk, and finally up through the passes of Erid Luin to be reunited with my people's. Yet none seem to exist. Or even be worthy of watching me sleep.
It is not like this steely Dwarf to worry, yet I find myself doing so rather aptly. With every patron who stoops under the door to the tavern hall, a new ally potentially presents themself. They stride over, and swiftly I tell them to do feck off. In my time I have grown angry. Part of my younger self, the stubborn Dwarf of ages past who fought on the same battlegrounds as Kings, remain's within me. As does his rage at all he did lose. I seek to reengage with my past self. To feel honour and purpose flowing through my veins again.
Such can only be achieved beyond the Hedgewall.
