Here I sit by my camp fire writing my thoughts. I should be in the Pony right now, lounging in a chair by the fireplace with a nice pint, but it seems my stay was cut short by an unexpected visitor. Curse her name, whatever it is.

*Written sloppily as if by a drunk hand*

What luck I've had of late! That young Watcher, Baymon I think he was called, was hefting around a fat coin purse the other night in The Pony as if begging for it to be cut from his belt - the fool. I would have cut it myself if it wasn't for the fact he blathered on about going fishing at Halecatch lake that evening.

I have had to flee Bree. Shortly after I attended market day a man - I know not whom- spoke to me in Sindarin. Though I affected not to understand, it is clear to me know that some aspect of my manner or speech has betrayed my Noldor blood, despite my mannish clothing and cloak I wear tight about me. I left word with the hostler, Butterbur, that should any answer my note requesting a guide to Barrow-downs they might find me in the sheltered dell a scant few miles west of Bree.

I left the hills and valleys of Linden behind with a heaviness upon my heart, in the knowledge than when next I set eyes upon the sea's beyond it shall likely be to carry me hence across the wide ocean and return to the West as did my father before me. Well it is that I rode upon the back of a good, human-bred horse purchased from the merchants of Thrain's Hall, ere my tred would have been heavy and slowed with a great weight of melancholy upon me.

Large, looped letters can be seen scrawled over poor quality pages, sewn into a portion of thin scrap leather. It is obvious that little thought was put into it's construction: it is more a craft of necessity than a work of artful binding. The fourth entry reads:

IV.

Dear Journal,

Far Away From Home II.

Far Away From Home