We have had a strange several days. Too many things have happened to write them all down in the span of a few minutes, so I will not.
I do not like him, but I do not remember doing anything which would cause him to hate me, either. I do not understand what quality of mine causes all of these people to assume the worst of me.
I feel a humiliating sort of responsibility towards him, though I wish I did not. There are a great many things which I wish I could not feel – the stares of the villagers, their snide remarks, the way in which it seems I have already been assigned the role of failure and embarrassment before I have hardly had the chance to act. Chiefest and most terrifying among these, though, is the urge to return to Tornhad and never venture forth again, to shut up my ambitions in a close, dark place and clip their wings that they may never dare take flight.
It would be easier. I do not know if it would be better.
I will think on it, before the pair of us must return and make our final report.
[At the bottom of the page is a rather bizarre and caricatured drawing of a goblin riding a cow while being chased by a farmer.]