Found:
Trestlebridge is just as dreary as ever. Whatever purpose that poison is being put toward, it's not immediately apparent. Nor is it any of my business. There's no point in staying for long.
I spoke to a few of the mercenaries I know. None have heard of an "Emmet," although that's hardly surprising. More "sensible" and superstitious people would take the Shire route rather than go through the mists. I prefer the wights to the hobbits, plus it's a much shorter route to where I first need to go.
There's naught much to say about this place that I haven't said before. Nothing has changed. It never does. I saw a man down by the river. He was sick, I think. He had a cough, kept his face turned away. Some disfiguring disease that he was worried about? Ah, no matter. I offered, but he didn't want anything and it wasn't my place to insist. Still, I went back later, after nightfall, with a hot drink and some food. I said nothing, didn't look at him, just put the tray down and left.
The best kindnesses are the quiet ones, the simple ones, the ones that require no acknowledgement or praise. I prefer them.
I'll continue onwards first thing in the morning. Steel may not think he needs the rest, but the last thing I want is him breaking his leg in the dark.
Maybe I'll camp along the edge of the mists tomorrow night. Make my way through in one go come daybreak.
