diary

Once again I find myself quill in hand. Since last I wrote I've found a peaceful area in Bree-land to call home away from home, though that is a story in itself. More than likely no other shall gaze upon these pages, but still I wish to pen my recollections. For myself and later years. Perhaps for some offspring of mine to read, should I yet be blessed with some.

Ever since I was a wee lad I've done my best to sift through all the books and dusty tomes I came upon anywhere in the Mark but never did I think of writing a simple diary, such that I've now opened and staring at its blank first page. It is because of... well, loneliness, or mayhap a need to document my travels and dare I say, adventures, in these far-away lands, that I now grasp the quill.

Dear Diary,

This just seems silly. Here I am, a grown man, and I'm writing in a diary like some young, love-struck lass! I'm not even sure to whom I'm writing. It can't be to myself. I already know my own thoughts. Perhaps writing them down will allow me to revisit them some time in my future. Is that why people keep such records? To dwell on past musings?

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. The handwriting plods along at a steady pace, but some crossed out words pop up here and there.

*Written in Tengwar lettering, the text appears to be very old*

((The text here should be considered translated into modern Westron from an older form of Sindarin, dating back to the time of Beleriand))

The Sting of Mortality

'Twere with great glee I met the Naugrim,

Such casual yet curious creatures they were,

With hair from chin and jaw and under horn,

So small yet splayed in stature,

They worked without weariness, without wear,

Great walls and pillars, bejewelled or more,

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. The contents of this piece don't focus on one particular event, instead narrating a series of happenings with a tone that ranges from exhasperated to indifferent to finally one where the author appears to feel 'strange' about recent events. There is a large blot of ink on one of the corners.

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. This time, the author's manner of speech is far more eloquent and collected, like he had taken the time to sort out his thoughts.

The Fourth of May, Year 3006 of the Third Age

DORVUS'S MASTER LOG