The snow is light today. Snow is both a friend and a foe. It allows me to follow others more easily, but by the same token, my own steps become more visible to any who might trail me. Today it is sparse enough that prints are not overtly obvious, but I have stopped frequently and kept my eyes to the north as a precaution.
The old fort is near. I will meet my contact shortly. I dare not build a fire so close to eyes both friendly and unfriendly, which makes writing a challenge, as I cannot feel my fingers half the time. Once again, I find myself wishing for summertime.
The inn in Bree is a tolerable place. I may pass the night there, depending on what I find out about the situation here. I recall the old jokes my brother used to tell me about women. If I'd listened to him, perhaps I'd be in a warm house right now, with a family about me. As it is, I am not, and my face assures I never will be. But, it is better to give my life to a noble cause than to wallow in pity.
I see a flame in the wood on the other side of the path.
