I was beginning to suspect that the rain would never end. Is every late-winter like this? It's hard to recall when you're in the midst of it, and you wish to say otherwise! The skies poured their icy torrents endlessly for days, we were forced to move our camp higher up the hillside and beneath a large, rocky outcropping, so the streams of water could flow around us and down into the valley, where it pooled and flooded into the little river there, churning it up into a greyish-brown color. My companion kept the fire going through it all with his admirable skills, the flame seeming to leap from his fingers into the kindling, despite the horrid dampness that soaked into everything from our hair to our clothes.
The goblins, thankfully, don't seem to care for the weather anymore than we, for there has been no sign of movement, nor of anything else, from the direction of their camp. My friend has helped pass the hours with many tales of his life, as well as those of his renowned forefathers. Many I already know, but I enjoy hearing them again anyway, for every person tells a tale with their own unique voice. And I enjoy the way his grey eyes light up and shine in the firelight, and the way his mouth widens with a smile here and there as he speaks.
Upon that subject, we observed a family of otters going down the hillside towards the flooded river, happy as could be in all that drenching rain. My companion had been in the midst of one of his tales when we heard the chirruping sound nearby, and peeked out from the tent to see one of the otters observing us curiously. I laughed and remarked that we should name him Elendil the Tall, for he was standing on his hind legs, straight as an arrow. My friend replied that he would like to see me try to draw Elendil the Tall Otter.
So I shall.
