diary

I have been tasked with finding information on the palantirs in the land of men called “Bree-land”. I do not want to go, but I must. It is not really a matter worth discussing. I have been advised to wear a hood around the Men, as they do not see the eldar often, as so it may cause disruption. I am not fond of being the centre of attention, so I will heed this advice, to save me some trouble.

Now Snorru was a silent, brooding type, as whoever had lost everything in a blink of an eye might surely be. But I reckon he was like that beforehand too and was never one to speak without a reason, nor did he seem to show much emotion save for that fleeting moment by the body of his dead wife in that cave in the Gravenwood. After that tragic incident we had formed a curious yet mistrustful bond, for because of the long enmity between our people neither of us could fully be at ease near each other.

While we rode on more warily after being waylaid by the Orc grunts that night by the border of Gravenwood, we kept pressing on as our hearts still burned for adventure. Perhaps even more so now that we had tasted its sweet taste and the rush. 'Twas not quite the same as patrolling the Mark with fellow Riders, battling whatever danger had passed the borders into fair Rohan and engaging them in petty skirmishes. Nay, there was a sense of excitement differing from it now that we were alone and a long way from home, me and Sigefaest.

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,