This entry is written in neat tengwar, the facing page a drawing of the fortress, technically fastidious but lacking artistry.
Well it wasn't a complete disaster, although it seems that my kin are unsure what to do with themselves when more than three of them work for a common goal. They are very skilled at confidently asserting good ideas, then going off and doing something completely different. We did not have the information to try a frontal assault—although given that Cellinbor was leading, it is little surprise that he would prefer to charge in with rather more battle cries than cautious stealth. We were fortunate that these bandits were little more skilled with a sword—or strategy—than the average rabbit.
I have attempted to sketch the devices adorning the walls of Ost Lagorath, and the situation of the fortress. As I had to focus most of my attention on its strengths and weaknesses, I believe I have well rendered its overall shape and the surrounding cliffs, but some of the details elude my memory.
The fortress itself I believe to be of early construction, though some sections may be more modern additions, and it is remarkably well preserved, or has been maintained through the centuries. What I seek to discover, is how it fits into the general of Arnorian defence and so I intend to return and get a better picture of its historical use. Unfortunately I doubt I'll be able to get too close—but I shall bring my sword in case of trouble.
In the skirmish I fought well enough, though there is too much to keep track of in the chaos of battle. I find myself afraid of missing something crucial, for my mind is too weak to observe the flow of even a small skirmish, when I find myself surrounded by raining arrows.
Why do I still shake and shudder when I see that sword, as if it opens a window to the past—to those it has slain?
The one I remember most I did not kill. We were evenly matched and traded strokes of weapons and words as he accused me of destroying a jacket of which he was fond. I do not doubt he sought to kill me. I do not doubt he deserved death. But his eyes held no malice, nor fear until that fleeting moment when an arrow struck him, before their light went out. He joined the strewn bodies around my feet—at least he must have. Several I remember falling, two I think by my hand. I do not remember seeing their bodies, but my boots still stink of blood.
My sword is in my saddlebags. Would that it could remain there.
