Dear diary,
I don't know how long it has been since I last spoke to you, it's so dark here I don't know if it's day time or night. The clearing isn't going as well as we were lead to believe. Goblins still lurk in the galleries and tunnels, attacking anyone that comes near. We have involved in a running battle with a gobbo war-party for three days. I say day, but time is measured differently down here, wake until sleep is a day, sleep until wake is night.
The only light down here is from some sort of glowing crystal, it casts a strange greenish light that makes me feel sick. I see gobbos in every shadow and I jump at every sound. We don't dare to light a fire to cook on for fear of attracting the attention of the gobbos. So we eat cold basic rations of dried meat and twice baked biscuits. This is no place for a Hobbit.
They said we could keep any treasure we find. There is none. Even the books have mouldered away and turned into useless mush. My hopes of finding rare and unusual tunes are fading with every pile of damp, mould infested mush that was once the proud libraries of Moria.
I should have taken my coin and gone home. I could have bought a nice house and set myself up as a tailor with a workshop in the parlor.
I miss the sunshine.
