Last night I dreamt of a travelling bard. It was in a time not yet passed, and he had somehow stumbled upon this diary. I don't know if it had been hard for him to invent tales to sing about, but he wrote his poems about mine and Lanua's adventure.
As clear as I can see this page, the pen and the ink, can I recall the tunes he sang to the patrons of a high class inn about us, our travels, and our encounters with the exotic.
But, as dreams so often are forgotten before they are remembered, I have no recollection of the words he sang about what lies ahead of where we are now, on our way south to Arzingdale.
I am feeling weary of all this walking today. In the stories of adventuring heroes there never seems to be any mention of the travelling. In the stories, for every leaf that there is a step, there is a tree worth of action and excitement. I have come to realise for myself that instead, for every blade of grass that a sword or bow is drawn, there is a field of long, arduous steps.
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