Found:
Nothing of use.
Damn you, Atharann!
I shrugged it off last night. It was easy enough then to dismiss the words of the Ranger, but come morning they were still floating around my skull.
Whatever hopes I may have had about banishing them with my usual exercise routine were scuppered when, by the end of the second hour, I still found myself plagued with questions.
I skimmed through the book he gave to me. It would appear to be a journal - his journal. A firsthand account of his prior meeting with this... healer. It will prove interesting if nothing else, but a single account alone is not enough. I need more to go on than this.
So, I went to the library. I spent more than half the day looking through the tomes within in search of something, anything, about the River-maids, about benevolent spirits and helpful spectres.
I found nothing. Nothing at all.
True, I've not been through them all yet. There are many more to check but I'm not certain that I will find anything. Not here, at least. Perhaps in my own collection? Some of the scrolls I've not yet translated?
Needing a break and a stretch of my legs, I wandered over to Combe where I came across a familiar pair. Neither one remained for long, but the short conversation was a welcome distraction from my thoughts.
I know myself. I'm too single-minded in pursuit of that which interests me, often to the point of detriment. I can't let myself fall into that trap and yet even now, as I write in this journal, half my mind is given over to that matter.
Could I be healed? Really? Could I be free of the pain? The cane? Could I ever be as swift and agile as I was before my brothers found me again? Isn't it a chance worth taking?
But at what cost? Everything comes with a price. Nothing is for free. If she exists, if she's willing to help someone like me, then what would she want in return? Would I even be able to meet such a demand?
I found Ryheric in my tent again. The third night in a row. Unexpected, but not unappreciated. How does he keep finding it? I've made no attempt to conceal it, or myself, but even so it is moved almost every day. How does he know? I shall have to ask him about it at some point.
I'll go back to the library in the morning. There has to be something, some silly little child's tale, some snippet of half-remembered anecdote, some reference to this somewhere.
If such a thing exists, I will find it.
