A Battered Journal: Entry Two

Of course I would choose to return to Caddabrand’s camp the day before a spring rain begins. Never mind that the skies could have emptied themselves whilst I remained dry and comfortable in the tavern of Elthengels. At least my tent is sturdy and the roof is not leaking onto my head. I admit, the sound is somewhat soothing, though I would prefer not to feel as damp as a toad in a swamp. 

I should have asked Ingberth if he would join me for a few days. Just long enough to reach the camp and catch up with my old friend. I was so diverted by the sight of a band of dwarves that I thought of little else whilst I stood afar in the tavern and watched. Ingberth informed me that the squatty invaders were convinced of wealth in the nearby hills and wanted to haggle for rights to dig it up. I might have been offended if I had cared enough. Two other Men were speaking to the dwarves, and I learned their names presently; Duncadda of Fenmarch and Waelden of Floodwend. The latter seemed almost too good-natured, but I will not hold that against him. Duncadda I recalled after he mentioned seeing me previously here at the camp. I did not get a chance to form a full impression of him that evening, as the camp held a peculiarly large number of travelers, several of whom were more intent on wagging tongues than taking rest. And that woman who reminded me of “her”. 

Memories are burdensome and bothersome things. It seems unjust that a man should spend his life collecting them, only to never be free of them in his old age. I expect this truth is not so bitter for those men who manage to make happy lives for themselves. 

But there is no use in griping. The arrival of spring means work, and work means coin, and coin means supper, and supper means living to see another day.