The 31st of Autumn’s Rest, Year of the Whispering Willows
Upon the soft cushions of my mossy nook, away from the bustling affairs of the riverfolk, I am compelled to inscribe the weighty burden that has beset my mind of late. An uneasy sensation flits like a summer breeze through my thoughts, a vague omen that ripples out from the depths of a ceaseless dream. Each night it visits me, a spectral presence that rises with the moon, casting a shadow darker than the deepest eddies of the Graylin.
In this dream, I stand upon a bleak and winding path, shrouded in fog, where the stench of despair fills the air. And there, at the end of the road, looms the Eye—a burning red orb that pierces through the veil of darkness. It gazes upon me with a baleful hunger, as if it knows the very marrow of my essence, unearthing my latent fears, my petty desires, and the secrets I dare not whisper to the waters of the river.
Oh, how it enthralls! At first, I merely felt its pull, like the soft babbling of a brook that beckons one to draw closer. But now, I sense its simmering malevolence skirting the edges of my heart. A sly whisper echoes in the caverns of my mind—a serpent wrapped in tales of power and greed. "Embrace the darkness, Cylo," it hisses. "Claim that which is rightfully yours."
I confess, dear journal, that I find myself drawn to thoughts I would never have entertained before. The notion of taking what does not belong to me now seems a bitter allure, as sweet as honey yet laced with poison. Such ideas poison my dreams and my waking hours—desires for trinkets unearthed from sunken homes, lands far beyond my reach, and riches belonging to folk more deserving.
What would the good folk of Misthallow say if they knew? Would they still sing their merry tunes at the banks of the river, or would they gaze upon me with eyes of pity, denouncing me as the traitor who lost his way? The reassurances of my fellow hobbits now seem distant, like echoes of a fading song—so far removed from the chilling cadence of the this menacing eye.
But here, nestled by the flow of the river, I still cling to hope, though it falters like the flickering flame of a sage candle. The wisdom of the old tales whispers in my ear, urging me to resist the snare of darkness—to seek out the light within, just as the sun breaks through the gloomiest of clouds.
And yet, I am but a humble river hobbit, longing for security and peace. Might I stand against the will of such overwhelming force? Or am I destined to drift into the cold embrace of the darkness that beckons?
As I seal these words with the ink of my fears, I pledge to seek counsel from my dearest friends and to share the burden that weighs so heavily upon my spirit. Tonight, I shall clutch my pillow close and murmur a prayer to Elbereth, beseeching her to deliver me from this haunting dream and to guide my heart back to the simplicity and joy of the riverside, untainted by the scourge of ambition.
May the waters wash away this darkness, and may the light of tomorrow bring solace to my beleaguered mind.
—Cylo Banks
