Randir's journal

Never did I believe that I would find myself comforted among the devices of the Enemy. But here we are, licking our wounds around a campfire among the Enemy's perch, and yet we quietly restrain our sense of triumph with grim thoughts of the coming trials. It's a sobering exercise. I sit here and write all that I can recall before my own unease and fatigue will lose them to sluggishness. 

 My fingers tingle and ache at the memory of the taut arrow and bow-string across my jaw. I missed my chance to let fly, and now my quarry flies. I shall not be bested so easily. I return the arrow to my quiver and grip my bow loosely. I angle my head now to the crisp dawn and draw breath, allowing the myriad of scents to paint a broad image in my mind of the unseen and the remote. My strides are brusque, yet measured. I must save myself from the folly of a young man's game. No haste is needed here.

(A Journal extract submitted to Lord Galvathalion and Lady Mornariel for approval, in aid of the House of Healing's complete knowledge of herblore)

 Deadman’s bells.