written in a mixture of Khuzdul and Sindarin
May turns into laer
Again it is past mid of night and I sit up here, in my little cottage in a town that until very recently I should not have called a home. How long I may be able to linger here, I cannot say. The dusty rotten tomes, two of them, lie on my bedside table; I feel my hands have been tainted by perusing them so much, and yet I am non the wiser. None at all! Every scribe I have inquired with, every scolar, healer, studied man, every trader of goods and things not good at all - they all claim ignorance! It is curious how swift they bade me to leave often if their claim is such. Ah Zavas, old felak of words and steel, what of your silver tongue now? Poor woman, never should she have been able to lay hands on such dark words. I must find out how these tomes found their way to her to this town of all places. Their sullied influence is not yet fully laid bare I fear. A storm is brewing, it draws ever closer. So much these old bones sense. I have been drawn into this business quite involuntarily, but now that my eyes have seen I cannot close them. And what of the young scoundrel? As far east as past the Wilderlands they claim he has gone. I must take the time to ponder my next step of bringing him home to her, even if that time be filled with worry.
Another three day passed
I went into the town of Bree again, making use of their city archives in my own research. Alas, the greatest library stays ill in use if the notty dwarf using it speaketh not the tongue required. It frustated me greatly to once more spend days cooped up in dark rooms, when outside the market stalls call for my trade. I had to swing my axe for near an hour to calm myself oustide! I enjoyed much making use of my skill and goods at the Inn called the Boar these past weeks, the little one's joy is all the pay a craftsman needs at my age, and their Barman is a curious fellow whom I dearly love to tease.
Tonight though my steps led me into the Inn called the Pony, a travellers walk in with its own selection of varied brews. I was just settling down to a huge order when the lad Tom walked in and we could finally have our drink together to celebrate the joining of our new fellows. (though how celebratory a cause remains to be seen) I like the man, he has an unspoiled honesty and openness about him that may some day either grieve him harshly or save his life. He is a curious lad, asked me my nose off about everything. And he drinks like a young dwarf! I told him about the mountain, my craft and with Ale after Ale, we toasted and cheered I remember standing up ready to sing that merry tune about the shrew in the soup when he turned white and excused himself. I laughed though I have a little worry whether this cave exploring and graveyard business has not taken a toll on him as it has on some of the younger females. They still sleep unwell or so they look when they appear in the Boar. I wonder if my mams sleeping remedy worketh for men as well as little dwarfs. To sleep now old fool. Morning beckons with new tidings no doubt.
