entry

Hello again, my diary. You are nothing but a simple, leather-bound book, and yet I cannot help but look to you for support. I would like to thank you in advance.

Nothing is simple. Everything that happens to me seems to always end in shock and pain.

While I told Garnold that I could not marry him because of my studies as a scholar, I agreed that we could remain friends...

...today, as I was conversing with a gentleman in the Prancing Pony, Garnold approached, stated a few words of not caring what anyone thinks of him, and then kissed me!

I'm sitting next to Herdo while writing this. Clearly he's dead, got an arrow in his throat. He was a fine steed, and I wish I had time to bury him. Alot of other dead horses too, a few on top of their riders, but a few of the corpses are still visible. Lots of Dunlending. Lots of them, all over the place. I wish that meant we'd won, but it doesn't. If we had, I wouldn't be sitting here, and all these corpses would be in a mound. I guess I was knocked out. My helmet's dented, so I must've fallen from Herdo, been knocked out and been left. Must've thought I'd died.