The travel deeper into Mirkwood was far from joyous. Elves were never the sort to bring merriment. When they dance, they dance strangely. When they walk, they walk faintly. When they speak, they speak vaguely. What joy can their way of life add to mine, when theirs differs so lightly from an autumn wind?
I miss the merry gatherings of my own people. The sound of fiddles, drums and flutes. The smell of ale-soaked beards and halfling quality pipeweed! The taste of a good roast and many eager ears awaiting my stories... This Tinnurion fellow better tell me what I need to hear! I have been away from home for far too long, but great shame awaits me if I go home empty-handed, if I fail my quest and my king.
But no time to write any more. A good day's march and we arrive at a place called Felegoth. If I am correct, this is the very place where Thorin II Oakenshield was held against his will, along with his brave followers. The thought that I walk in his footsteps maybe the only comfort I will find there.
