It's been nearly a year since I left Linhir. A year, since I tried to do away with myself. A year and a half since I lost everything that was so precious to me. Even now, I mourn. I can find no beauty in any of the places that I visit. I can find no good in anything that my eyes rest on. I can only see ugliness. My reflection grows more weary-looking each time I see it.
I find myself in Breeland and furthermore, ensconced in the town of Bree. The inn here is a horrid place; everything is dirty and smelly and I find that I would much, much rather sleep outside in the fresh haystacks than sleep on one of their beds. I wish to be left alone, too, but these damned idiots do not seem to recognize when one desires solitude. It is easy, though, to scare them away. A little posturing seems to be enough to drive off those who would seek to ferret out secrets that are not theirs to keep.
I will begin to seek employment soon, for I cannot move ahead on my journeys until I have more coin in my pocket. There is always the gowns and jewels I could see -- I still even have some of the old jewel money left -- but I shouldn't touch that. For now I must make do; I must make do and send these nosy people on their way as they come.
When I have enough money, I will go far north, to Forochel. I will eek out my living there on the cold wastes, and there I will live and die alone. That is my plan; that is my greatest desire.
I have come to realize that I shall never be loved -- and that I must give up any dreams of having a family and a situation of my own.
