Amlarad

I admit, at first it un-nerved me. A tree, with eyes peering out of its bark, like two blinking knot-holes in its wood, branches moving like true limbs... and a laugh from what I suppose was a mouth. But then, I think.. a dog can blink, and laughter is no sign of intelligence. Even an adle-pated fool can laugh.

I took him into the goblin encampment. He did well; attentive, alert, swift acting but not impatient. His lack of training in true discipline is obvious, but not a great encumberance - I warrant it is because he acts so often alone. His skill is with the bow, would that I had the strength to draw such a one as he carries. Without a shield he is forced to defend himself with a second blade. Admirable.

I woke this morning with my face on a twice-baked biscuit. He must have gone before dawn, leaving them beside me. Too close. The day is clear and bright, thin whisps of cloud high above me. A day to move on into the hills. Last night before I slept I resolved to do so, get away from the compelling, befuddling lake. I need to see more of the hills, to take what I gained from my questions and relate it to the land. Up high perhaps my mind will be clearer - a test too then - to see if this lady of his is real, if her powers are bound to water.

Three days, three nights here at the lake. We are like slow-moving dancers in a new unlearned figure. We meet together then move apart, him to whatever he does here, me to duty; but in each circling one is still while the other leaves and returns. Then, reformed, we sit and talk and the stars or sun shift across the sky seen and unseen, sensed but unknown.

a fat coney! And ... a bag of silver pennies! A good day, a fine day, a wit-filled day! I come up over Archet seein' to the snares, and there is the helm-man and three slouchy shady folk. Heh... I dursn't realise he was one o' a gang a theives. They'm standing around, spyin' on the village. Stupid stonelendings, nothin' in Archet worth havin'. Iffen there were ... I'd've sold it back to 'em.

Godric is set to help the good folk of the hillside refuge. They speak of men driven to plunder old graves by lack of food and hardship. So respect dies in the north it seems; pushed to the edge by hard times. The local folk speak of evil-enamoured men and women, moving towards the ruins of the lake-side city. Leaving Godric to work with them may reveal more of what is happening here.

One contact now, amongst these lakeside wardens at Tinnudir. I had observed him one or two days amongst his fellows, before he began to speak to me. Tall, even for one of these northern men, not badly presented, tho' apt to slouch. A good reach to his arms, and a keen eye for detail - even if he lacks discipline, and indeed, regular bathing. I warrant however he is a handy lad to have beside you if trouble is near. ....

I must write ... I writing I am not alone. Twice now I have moved, further into the marshes. The mist closes in on me, no longer a welcome veil...and it is dark, so very dark. I feel that dark settle on my skin, palpable dark... a nothing that envelopes, seeps into pores. Somewhere above me are stars, I believe it to be true, but nothing of stars or moon are here. All my light for this scratching is come from Esteluinil. She radiates softly, the only illumination. But I know what she tells me - orcs wander at will in these hills, and of them I have no fear...