The familiar chambers of the Repository, once calm and quiet, were now buzzing with life. The new scribes had been recruited from all over Eriador in an attempt to make it more open. There were Men, Hobbits and Dwarves running around with books and parchments alongside the longtime Elf scribes. The changes to the ancient policies had not gone through without complaints, and many scribes had left.

Dear Diary,

The Dwarf chugged down the next beer, slamming it violently on the table before wiping his mouth barbaricly and slobbily, grinning at her with his yellow and black teeth.

"Ugh." She thought. "Looks like someone's been eating too much corroded pork, along with sour milk."

Entery one, dated 30th of July, The Third Age of Middle Earth I offten look apon my body after I wash and I look at the scars I have earnt in Battle. All I have done, all my years of Warfare, and I cannot see myself stettling down with Lessel and Bellewing. I picture it, as if it was painted to me by another, and I cannot stop myself from woundering, what if this was attacked? Where could I put a wall? Where are my Battle-Brothers? *The writting here seems to have been written much later, maybe a day or more later*