The cold winds of the Misty Mountains whip around the small camp with a howl and a hiss. Although the company is braced against the face of a cliff in an attempt to protect themselves from the howling chill, it does little to warm them once night falls and the stone they sleep upon turns frigid. Tucked away beneath an overhang, apart from the rest of the group, sit a pair of elves huddling together for what little warmth to be found.
I should have supposed that the opportunity was always going to be too good to be true. A caravan of Erebor dwarves and Barding merchants heading westwards seemed like the perfect chance for me to get away from Dale once and for all. I needed a fresh start. The Watchmen of Dale were at their wits’ end with me, and the folk of Lake-town were getting rougher with those they deemed criminal or unsavory.
The formation held in the depths. Goblins threw themselves at the Company’s rescue party. The commander had impaled and cut down many of the vanguard goblin warriors, and his fellows had done much the same. Between the dwarven screaming of Kildwin and the exasperated war cries of Furley, the commander struggled to keep order with the rest of his troops. The less experienced warriors stood shoulder to shoulder with the trained veterans and had taken quickly to Kildwin’s formation training.
The pages of the journal are weathered and worn. The yellowing of the parchment speaks to its age. The pages are brittle and delicate but have been treated with care to still be in a legible condition. The text is faint from the aging of the ink.