Many days have passed since I have last written in this book of thoughts and feelings. I have occupied myself with one venture only: the pursuit of that man, that "Wolfshead" of Bree-land. His ilk pursue power and privilege at the expense of others, mimicking the awkward and inequal distribution of property and wealth that is seen here, in the cities of the South, and even in a land like that "Shire", where small folk work hard and some small folk work their bellies day and night.
I know not what drives such delusions into his head, but I do know he is a formidable adversary and I have been honored to exchange words and battle with him under the glimmering stars. Though where he lies now, I am not sure. His activity has lulled and his followers are mute.
The wolf has escaped the grasp of its doom, and I write that with dismay. All hunts see an end, but this time there is no trophy but my survival and the tenuous peace of Bree-town. I lay here in this humble bedroll, considering the present that I have maintained and the future I wish to acquire. Bree-town has become a strange sort of home to me. Somehow it is both turbulent and docile; dreary and endearing; lifeless and exciting.
Home was once sandy, but it is now green.
