Bree-land

Dearest Diary,

How much I do love thee. So much. So very, very much. Well, not really, but I figure if I'm going to continue calling you “Dear,” I should at least occasionally add a little sweet-talk. Or not.

In truth, I don't have much to say today. Merely a few hopes, concerns, doubts, and fears. Normally I could keep them to myself, but it can't hurt to write them down, document them. Can it?

Dear Diary,

So, if I want this to catch the eye of some future Treasure Hunter, it must have a title. Since not everyone in Bree-land knows their letters, and I want it to be clear I do—my dad taught me mine—I've decided to literally alliterate my literacy. Therefore, this dynamic diary of doubts, deliberations, and dramatic descriptions of daring do's shall henceforth be known as: Rarely wRitten Random Ramblings! Of course, being the serious person I am, I may later decide that such a title is simply too silly to keep. But we'll see!

The crew had a couple of ideas to get coin, but what they promptly jumped at was starting an arena of sorts - a brawling ring, run by them, with betting to make money. The captain formed a similar project in Bree some years back, but was too focused on the pleasure aspect to turn it into a profitable business at the time. 

A series of written thoughts stashed away in a box of parchment, written meticulously and precisely, as if the writer had taken great pains to make their handwriting as legible and clear as possible.

[Note: The following is a handwritten note left in the Arnorian ruins overlooking the Prancing Pony courtyard, set upon a Gondorian greatsword driven into the earth near the stone circle.]

To my friends in the North,

At evening often it happens yet,

When the rest of our night is free,

That a veteran old from the war is met,

And we chat about Ynel of Bree.

Though sullen the man may have been before,

More kindly his face now grows,

And his gray moustache doth a curl come o'er,

And smile on his visage grows.

He thinks how oft from the battle-plain,

or from long-day's travel incur

And wearied, came he a pint to drain,

in the Prancing Pony with her.