The warm fireside of the Prancing Pony is a conflicted place for me to be. I relish its heat, and the way it drives the chill from my bones. It allows me to sleep as I never could in the outdoors. I find myself enjoying my meals more slowly, savoring each swallow of ale, and growing comfortable with the distant sound of laughter from other patrons across the room.
And then I think of my kinsmen. How they shiver in the snow tonight, huddled inside their cloaks, their eyes sharp and unsleeping as they watch the endless darkness around them. They eat hardtack and cured fish with icy water from melted snow. Their bedrolls offer little in the way of comfort to their weary bodies.
Yet I was ordered to remain here until I receive word to go elsewhere. I am eager for news of our wounded, ill friend.
I found an interesting new sort of "cake" at the marketplace yesterday. The hobbit selling them claims they will cook down into soup if placed in hot water, and will keep well on the road, so I bought one for two pennies. If it proves as hearty as she claims, I may obtain more to share with my companions.
Hold, there is a knock at the door -
