We have driven off the Norse, but at a terrible cost. More Bobs lay rotting in the field than return to Hommlet. The locals celebrated our victory, but the festivities were subdued with the specter of death and the very real fear of more warfare in the Spring. Until the next campaign season, Hommlet can rest, but every household mourns a father, son or brother; they prepare for a hard and lonely winter. I have ugly memories of the battle and can find no respite here. It had been my intention to ride off with haste, but Tyr'n convinced me to wait for him to teleport me and save weeks of travel.
As for our own party, we have few complaints. Sorak has claimed another trophy: a priest/bard this time, none of our company were slain (although Tyr'n's acid arrow wound nearly finished him off) and we have divided the recent spoils with our usual zeal. I have taken a Cloak of Protection for myself, a worthy prize, not the least because I saw Sorak eying it this past week.
We have a busy itinerary: I will visit my parents in Sweden and while there, find a worthy literary instructor to help me with my burgeoning poetry. Then it is off to Switzerland to visit the famous Dwarven armories. There, we will have our white-dragon scale fitted. I don't expect a warm welcome among the Dwarves, but fortunately their love of gold out-paces their hatred of the Elves. Finally, Tyr'n and I will arrive at the Portal, our ultimate destination, where I will rest and write. I will not leave there until at least early May.
If the Norse return, Hommlet will have to manage without me. I have other plans for the Summer, but I dare not put them down on paper here. I suspect certain party members have been reading my journal. Whoever you are, may you join Prindel in Faerie hell!
To Man
May your kingdom outlast memory,
A slow death old in bed,
To reflect upon the struggle,
And pass on wisdom in its stead.
But remember that long after,
The elves remain and sing,
Of Man! the cursed and mortal,
Who died more than he lived.
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