The 1st of Harvestmoon, Year of the Whispering Willows
Dear Journal,
Today, I find myself at the edge of my thoughts, grappling with shadows that cling to my mind like moss to the stones of our beloved Greylin River. The remnants of my dreams linger like fog above the water, curling and twisting, and I can’t help but shudder at the memory of the flaming eye upon the mountain. Oh, how tormenting that vision was! The glaring gaze pierces deeper than any blade, igniting a fear within me that I’ve scarcely known before.
I awoke this morning in a sweat, the remnants of those terrible visions still swirling around me—flames licking at the edges of my mind, whispering curses in a tongue I could not decipher. My heart raced, yet in quiet reflection, I found a peculiar emptiness. It was as if the very essence of me had been stripped, leaving behind only confusion and dread.
It was later that I learned of what transpired while the flaming eye invaded my dreams. Rumors swept through MistHallow like swift currents of the Greylin. Mine own kin, those who have trusted me through many seasons, gathered in hushed tones to speak of shipments. Stone weed, they whispered, has flowed like a surging tide into our village—a boon and a bane, they say. But this I cannot fathom, for I have no memory of such dealings.
I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve become a puppet, strings pulled by the unseen hand of that monstrous eye. How could I, a river hobbit and humble gardener, become entangled in this web of illicit trade? My heart aches at the thought—our river, once pristine and untouched, now tainted by whispers of greed. The elders will not take kindly to this news, and I fear what they might accuse me of.
As I sit here at the bank, watching the current swirl lazily in the evening light, I wrestle with the ghosts of my actions—or lack thereof. Did I, in my dreams, trade away our sacred bonds for something darker? I cannot say, for my mind is a locked door, and the key lies in the depths of a corrupted slumber.
What will I do? Will I confront the elders, lay my soul bare before them, and ask for their guidance? Or will I venture into the unknown to uncover the truth behind these shipments? My heart tells me I must seek the answers. I cannot abide by the mere chance that my dreams dictate my actions, nor can I allow MistHallow to fall prey to some dark tide of fate unwittingly unleashed by my hands.
Tomorrow, I will consult with Beth, the wisest among us, to unravel this mystery and find a way to free my mind from the clutches of the eye. It cannot remain. I will not be a pawn in this malevolent game.
In the whispers of the river, perhaps lies the truth I seek. I must listen more closely.
Yours in earnest thought,
Cylo Banks
