Journal - Battle

Set off to North Downs, went to fight. I found my target and have slain it. The end.

I don't like to write about combat, I don't do it well. I'm not a bard or a poet, spewing out bollocks the likes of "swords flashing in the noonlight" or what have you. I know the combat as it really is - quick, brutal and unforgiving. One slip and you're a leg short, and being a leg short next to an angry orc, man or what have you is the quickest way to the grave. Unmarked, shallow grave at the side of the road, most likely end for a merc like myself. No one cries after us, fewer yet bother with proper burial. We're lucky if someone makes a cairn, so the wolves don't drag our bones off into the woods.

Either way. I've got what I came for and I'm now carting the damn thing back to Bree. Why am I doing this? The sod didn't even pay me yet. True, he's a friend. About the only I have. But that's even more reason to not do daft nonsense like this. And yet here I am. Guess living among the fools in Bree made me susceptible to their madness.

The dreams are back. Either I'm using too little of that potion of his, or I grew resistant to it. Neither is a good thing, I'm surpressing these for a reason.

Guess I know what I'll do with what he pays me.