The Journal of Turri and Yurri
Resuming the Work
Entry Six Hundred and Ninety Four.
The ink strikes the page as my father's did, all those centuries ago. Yet now his words have faded, but never forgotton by me, Yurri, son of Turri. I am ashamed it took me so long to add to my father's journal, but now in lateness I realise I must resume the work. Not just of this journal alone, but of the efforts of the Dwarven people's, my own.
Long have I sat slumped in Bree, idle except for the occasional brawl here and there. Barliman's best no longer batters my brain, nor send's me to another time. Another place. It is now but a lul, and my very fiber fights for Yurri's return. The true Yurri, that fought at War. The Yurri my Father always sought for me to be. His unequivocal son.
The men folk have been good to me, mostly. The business with the Troll was dealt with aptly, largely due to my companion's. Bested I was, twice by this beast of night, and twice they rallied to my aid. Tylan Hawthorn, Seaver, Drunn Farrows. Names I should do well to never forget. Without them, my Father's axe, my axe, would never have been recovered. The legacy continues because of those names, and the people behind them.
I write far more eloquently than I speak. It is a different form of communication from the heart. I am not speaking to another who might wrong me. Who might hurt me. Betray me. Think me evil, though an impossible feat for a Dwarf. I am speaking only onto myself. The great Dwarf in a town where grown men become wimps in matter's of the heart and women. Or they become monster's, killers of their own kind.
I can stand it little. In the year between the matter of the Troll thief and now, present day, I did travel to Thorin's Hall in the Erid Luin. The cold air of the snow capped mountains swept my bones bitterly, which seemed to chatter along with my jaw in complaint. Yet it was home. That vastness, the sheer scale of height in the mountains. The hot furnaces churning their produce, as hammer's strike metal with the clangs of hope. It is where a Dwarf like me belongs. Orc's have grown in number in the Erid Luin, dividing our Elven allies and the Dwarven Kingdom and splitting us in two. It will take much work to eradicate the threat, and there I am due to return. To fight, or to feed the fighters, if nessecary. The lone outpost of Gondamon will serve as my first stop, and any Dwarven encampment along the way. My road is long and full of peril, and I would have it no other way. I fear following a trail of our dead to reach my destination.
Forgive me Father, for speaking so little of you. In truth, I remember not even your face. It is in your name, the name of Turri, that I do solemnly act upon this quest. I was betrayed by Jorich, a pesky coin pincher who plays the game of tricksters and connivers. He was to be my travelling companion, but now tells me I must find another to accompany me to Thorin's Hall. Be that as it may, I am not one to take order's from a longshanks, or to be deceived by one. He'll have to pay for this insolence in broken bones.
Now to find a companion who won't slit my throat in my sleep. I have a fat throat indeed, like a great toad. Let them try. It will take six stabs to end my fat frame instead of but a singular thrust to end a Bree pup. My coin from the Troll hoard a year past has run dry, and I cannot call upon my old friend's. They possess lives of their own now, the path's they tread not one's I would have chosen for them. But it is their's to walk alone, at least without Yurri. They are now used to my absence, it is clear by their faces alone.
They would not believe what I once was. Young, handsome, fierce with a sword and deadly with even a shield. The only fat I bore was pure muscle, bulk, swiping steel in blurred fury and watching the Goblin before me disassemble before my eyes in bursts of black. I was glorious. It is that glory I must chase, lest I rot away in Bree, the barren corner of the world, forever.
