Today I received word that my presence is again needed in the North Downs, and although it pains me to leave the city in such a sorry state, it is apparent that this choice is not my own. It would seem that many companies of Orcs have been mustering near the southern ridge of the Ram Dúath, and several of my kin have already fallen beneath their shadow.
This journey must be made in haste, and to my despair it seems my path leads through the fell plains of Fornost. The once lush fields of green now have faded to grey, and foliage blooms no longer.
By early evening I had exited fair Annúminas, having taken precautions to ensure my trail was not followed. I passed beneath the ruins of my heritage, alas for the sorry state of the world.
The sun slowly drifted down the slope of the sky, as my feet carried me ever onward. My path was littered with bricks of white stone, and a thick fog slowly encompassed me. Perhaps by luck my feet kept to the path, but by the time the fog had passed, I could see clearly it was not luck that guided me here.The sight of the Fornost laid a heavy feeling on my heart.
The peaceful folk of the land have named it "Deadmen's dike", and perhaps rightly so, from what I could see. The sorcery of the Witch-King, and his followers have sat long upon these fields, and it feels now that no life was suited for this place. Alas, again I say for the state of the world, I pray that this dark looming over us soon passes.
