diary

Mum was never a good cook. She always burnt her stew a bit. Or she'd throw the onions almost raw into the mix. Or she'd forget to butter the cake batter and end up making a kind of hard bread. 

I remember the faces my father would make, trying to hide how salty the soup was, so that my mother wouldn't notice. I felt like getting angry with her, but Dad always said it was better not to spend our time together at the table arguing over silly things.

Madaurbeth,

Madaurbeth,

Hobbits… Hobbits are such curious things.

[The writing is in Aduniac, some parts of the writing more sloppy than others. Written the morning before the attack.]

I have decided to keep a journal. Something I sit down to do. I would like to write books on lore someday, so I think writing a journal would be a good start. I am sitting in the library in my house with a cup of tea, going to leave for a shift at the Stag in a couple minutes.

~ Entry I - V: From Rohan to Bree-lands ~

In these entries, Swefenclide details his encounter with the Blackwold brigands, a Nazgûl, and a part of his childhood in Rohan.

Dear Turuviel,

we are finally home! Though you are not here, unfortunately, so i write this to you in hope of someday it being read by you.

The last leg of our journey from the south Trollshaws back home was probably more exciting than we would imagine!
It all started in the morning when Arradril noticed insects, lots of insects, buzzing around seemingly without an explanation of their origin.
I tried to dismiss this as irrelevant, or perhaps owing to the too hot summer that we'd been having. But somehow, in the back of my head, it kept nagging at me.

Dear Turuviel,

there have been a long few days on the road from Bree when i wrote to you last.
We are now close to home, in an encampment in the Trollshaws where we can almost smell the warm fires of our House. Almost there, one more push!