Dimheim

His youngest child to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor greeting.

It’s always good when you return home from a journey. Back in the warmth of your home, the always full mug of your drink and the warm hearth. For once we haven’t encountered any trouble on our trip, no fights, no pursue, nothing. Only the incident in the Old Forest but that is to be expected there. We passed through the Shire and then into the Southern part of Ered Luin among the Elves. It was good and refreshing. It relaxes body and mind there.

[As it is often so, Maddoct’s handwriting is curly. Though in this particular letter it is not too horrible — it seems Doc tried his best to tone it down and give mercy to the recipient’s eyes.]

Doc to the dearest Jackilyn Blackburrow, 

[The envelope looks like it was sealed once with wax, opened, then re-sealed. It feels a little heavy. Inside, the writing of the first page is a little shaky and full of many hesitations (especially at the beginning). The ink looks like it would dry one day, then a new bottle would be opened the next, as if the process of writing was drawn out over some time. Tucked in front of the folded letters is a small strip of ribbon. It’s dark purple, embroidered with a delicate vine-like pattern of lilac and white flowers.

It’s a week now since we returned from the small hunting trip with Dimheim and the Fist of Steel Tournament. Both went very well. I think that my tournament was the only fighting tournament that was concerned for the participants’ welfare than any other in history.

[The script is the same as before. Again, each log is a new page, and again there is another torn introductory note that reads:]
 

We have been speaking plenty in person, now that you have recovered from your fever, so much of the stuff I would otherwise write in a report to you feels redundant at best. Still, I have found that there is much to say.

Entry the tenth and last.

I suppose that this page ought to be a summary or conclusion and tell something of what I have learned in my two months of study at the Soothery, but composing my thoughts has been difficult. In this short time so much has transpired, a great rush of experiences and knowledge coming towards me as I have never before experienced. Even I have been changed, I suspect, though I think ultimately for the better.

Look at this! I haven't seen this journal for years. How time passes. Now what to write, well, I am already writing but nothing of importance. Let's try and write about the latest happenings. How do I start? From  the start. Let's see...

[The script is, overall, ostentatious. Overtly curly and perhaps hard to read, and it’s almost as if the author was already wishing to write his next sentence before the first had finished. With each log, a fresh page begins, but lying on top of them all is a torn slip of parchment that reads:]