The 30th of Autumn’s Rest, Year of the Whispering Willows
Dearest Journal,
Tonight, I must pen down a most unsettling dream that has clawed through the veil of slumber and left its mark upon my waking mind. As I lay beneath the soft blanket of moonlight shimmering on the MistHallow River, I drifted into a realm far beyond our quaint little Misthallow. Though my abode is often filled with the sweet scent of honeysuckle and the gentle croon of the evening breeze, this vision infused my spirit with leaden shadows.
In my dream, I was on the banks of a darkened lake, the water gleaming black like the heart of a starless night. The air was thick with a chilling silence, broken only by a distant echo—a haunting whisper, an unholy call. I moved forward, drawn by an unseen force, and there it lay—looming above me—THE EYE of red flame.
Oh, how shall I describe it? It was a swirling maelstrom of malice and shadow, a fiery gaze that pierced through the very fabric of the world. This fiery Eye,vast and terrible, unwavering in its hunger—a monstrous orb that seemed to recognize me, delving deep into the recesses of my soul. I felt its fiery gaze strip away my jovial spirit, revealing the fragility of my own being. I renounce its power! I am but humble hobbit, a river hobbit with love for good ale and scenic strolls!
But with every blink, the darkness seeped further into my core, and I feared I might become its thrall. Its influence clawed at my heart, planting seeds of doubt and dread where there had once soared beams of merry light. “What if,” it whispered in sickly sweet tones, “you are never truly free? What if the shadow you see elongating behind you is your own?”
Upon waking, I could hardly recall how precisely I returned from that dark place. The sun was a dim memory, shrouded in clouds that hung heavy above MistHallow. The river that usually sang songs of joy now murmured ominously, a flow of ink rather than water, reflecting my disquiet.
The energy of corruption lingers on my brow. Even now, I struggle to shake it off like a wet cloak; fear gnaws at my heart like the gnawing of a hungry bear. I swear I saw flickering shadows in the corners of my eye, a slithering reminder of the darkness that beckons, pulling at the frayed edges of my mind.
I must resist it. I must gather strength, and yet…there is a subtle intrigue I can’t deny—a deep allure tethered to the shadows. A part of me wonders if I might possess power untold, but I remember the laughter of my friends, the serenity of my little home, the sparkling waters of the MistHallow River, and those thoughts quell the creeping darkness.
To conclude this evening’s entry, I vow to upon the morrow seek solace in the company of my dear friends and raise a mug of ale to drown these thoughts of malice. But tonight, I leave these words as a reminder—a warning—of what awaits.
Until the dawn breaks anew,
Cylo Banks,
