diary

Journal of Captain Iriul of Tinnudir
Page 2

When the greenway took me to familiar lands, I didn't expect such events to unfold.
No people here know me, and that might be best. I took the alias of Gamber, hastily thought up and honestly, I had to look to my horse to think of it. However much the old Captain forbid us to go in to the Town itself, it was too long of a road to stay away from well-reputed ale and properly cooked food. 

Journal of Captain Iriul of Tinnudir

It has now fallen to me,the captaincy of Tinnudir and Alaghir's company. After knowing the man for a lifetime, his luck was finally spent upon the stormed waves of the Belegaer Sea, along with many of our kinsmen. In fact, I return alone. This journal will act as the only witness to my journey if i should fail, and if indeed i live to write it to it's last page it will be the account of my Captaincy from beginning to end, however soon or late it may come.

It's no secret to those who knew of my father that the Tierneys are a folk of itchy feet; it's a trait I earned from generations passed, proven to be the victor even when faced with warm fires, a deep bed, and pleasant company at the local. I am certain it's an urge that can't be repressed any longer. Since the walk from Buckland to Bree I've been wondering where my boots may take me next, but my imagination fails me and all I can yearn for is a shady tree and a book to read.

I cannot shake this sadness off me, I'm afraid. I stood apart from my kin for so long, I do not quite remember how to truly interact with others. I thought it was time that I stepped out of that library to go back to having some adventures, some excitement in my life, but since Atto and Ammë sailed back...

Diary,

How is it possible to feel this way? To be elated yet so miserable? I feel as though I am walking on clouds as I drown.

Diary,

Diary,

Yesterday, in the evening, I was at Mr. Brablo’s library.
Upon arriving, I was actually quite shocked: I found him sitting down in his chair, sleeping. Waking up, it seemed as though he had slept since noon, or so, but I did not say much on the matter: his sleeping habits are his own, of course.

It was yesterday that I had visited Mr. Brablo’s home.
His burrow was grand, and every piece of furnishing inside seemed to bring the other pieces together: paintings, sculptures, and maps. Several bookshelves lined the walls, also, which sparked a great deal of joy in me – I was standing in the burrow of an author that I admire, and everywhere his books were.