The “journal” is a stack of rolled sheets of vellum in a waterproofed scroll case. The handwriting is blocky and almost childish, and the writing contains numerous errors in spelling and grammar. The transcription here omits these errors for clarity.
We have arrived in the horse-lands, far east and a good way south, almost among the mountains, in a village with no name.
Tristraem is dead.
I think that was his name. A waste of time, of life, of loyalty. I do not know what the other woman carried, but it was precious enough to be worth dying for, or so they seemed to think. Like I said -- a waste. I did not like him, but even so, all this faith in another man (another mortal, however much this lot thinks he is infallible), and that is what it got him. Dead.
So now we wait -- or I wait, at least, while these people figure out their back ends from their sword-arms. I have half a mind to start looking on my own, if I knew where to look. But I do not, and if the ambush that killed Tristraem is any sign, I would not make it far once I found the trail.
Perhaps it will be better to hunt the hunter -- though if the hunter is half as bad as these people make him out to be, it would be better to stay far away, wash my hands of the whole thing, and hope to high hell that no one remembers I was here.
At any rate, it is good to be off the road. Poor Máv threw a shoe not long before we crossed into Rohan, and a short rest will do him good while I find someone here to fix it. Any longer than a few days, though, and this whole hunt may have become useless. We have already taken long enough, and whatever pursues our target is not going to keep him alive once they catch up to him.
If we do not hurry, he is lost.
