This leather-bound book is smaller than most of its kind, pocket-sized and built for convenience. It's been written in carefully with a dull brown ink, the letters of each word connected in a sort of cursive. Great care has obviously been taken to keep it neat and clean, mistakes very few and far between.

The paper is old and brittle, greyed, rough. Things like the ocassional leaf, pressed flower or (even rarer!) feather are slipped between some pages... signs of memories of a surface long since forgotten.

Etched carefully into the reverse side of the leather cover is the name of the journal's owner; Flinthook Brittlebow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's been three tendays since my birthday, yet gifts continue to reach my home. It seems like only yesterday I was building scrapwood forts with Tuck... and now he's delivered a beautiful riding dog for my birthday!

An even stranger gift was a mace from my Uncle. I keep ornamental weapons in my home, but this is quite the heavy thing. Mayhaps he meant it as some joke on my behalf? I very much doubt I'll ever see need for it. For now it will be given the ambigious task of collecting dust above the fireplace. Normally I'd pack it away, but in case he decides to visit, it's best I keep it out so he sees how much I appreciated the gesture.

With Hammer drawing to a close, the wheat fields seem finally ready to be re-planted around Fanderburry. I may wait a day or so to begin planting. The nights are growing shorter and it seems a shame to not enjoy what remains of them at Fanny's. Who knows, I may spend the whole of a week there and become the town drunkard.

Yesterday a strange man rode through the street on a pony, bloodied from some brawl. He claims to have been attacked near a cave not too far from here while stopping for a rest. Oh what troubled times are these that casual travelers must brave such perils as this. My heart aches for his condition, but there's little I can do for him.

Things will work out for him, I'm sure. These things have a way of solving themselves.

Flinthook Brittlebow, The Third of Alturiak, The Hundredth and Fifty First Year. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Elder Ackill has announced to everyone that it shall be his life's work to build and dedicate a temple to the God Arvoreen, and in the center of our blessed Fanderburry, no less! I think it a terrible waste of community funds and capital. We could put the resources to better use preparing for drought (if this summer follows the recent trend, especially).

Of course, that nitwit brother of mine has volunteered both our time in the temple's construction! He's gone off and proclaimed his allegiance to Arvoreen! If only mother was alive to see this, I'm sure she'd not let this foolish boy go off and get himself murdered in the name of a "God" of Halflings.

I hold no grudge against Arvoreen's priests. They protect us from harm, and for that I'm appreciative. But I don't want to bury my brother next season because he's rushed off on some fool's crusade in the name of a religion he can't possibly understand.

He's seen too few summers.

Flinthook Brittlebow, The Eleventh of Alturiak, The Hundredth and Fifty First Year. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Three weeks work and naught rest nor payment serves as reward. The stones are heavy and the mortar runny. When not tortured by Sun above it's chilly frost that greets such parched lips as mine.

This temple seems to steal life from our bones daily, yet the task before us and work undone seems to pile ever higher! That great defender must surely mock us and our pitiful exploits.

Worse are these "Catbill Murders" we keep hearing of. I'd rather not shadow my sunny days with the ill news of a far off folk. They say that creatures of deep, black origin strikes at them during nighttime hours... and already the rumors have me rambling in my journal! [A sharp line drawn across the page, as if in frustration.]

Progress on the temple is slow, but complaints and grumbles will not move brick nor hammer. It is in such trying time that the patience of decent men is tested!

Flinthook Brittlebow, The Second of Ches, The Hundredth and Fifty First Year. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They attacked us in the night. Arrow, steel, flashing thunder of magical origin. The fields and forest surrounding the village burn even now. The houses all aflame and smoking.

They didn't discover me. The coward I am, I stole myself away beneath an unfinished floor of a storage cell within the incomplete temple. The Gods damn my nerves! Even now I see the tracks in the mud... the survivors of the raid, tragged off into the forest.

I could follow...? What could what I do? I couldn't summon the strength to lift my arms against the invaders, how could I possibly redeem such loathsome inaction?!

And Tuck... he died like a man whilst I cowered in the temple. I heard him shout! And oh what shouts he made! I cannot let this stand. I have the mace my Uncle gave me now. It looks as if it shall see use after all. I know not where the Gods may have me headed, but there's little else I can do but join in step!

Arvoreen... guide me. Please.

[The symbol of Arvoreen, two crossed swords, etched on the page.]

Flinthook Brittlebow, The Twenty Third of Ches, The Hundredth and Fifty First Year. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My father would chide me for calling him by his name; Shilrook.

"Son, you call me 'father' and nothing more."

I wish he were here. He taught me to read, to write, of poetry, war and the ways of the world. I neglected him in the way most children do. I hope he's looking down on me from the Green Fields. I hope I can make him proud.

It's been days pursuit and no sign of my quarry. Hope seems faded, a distant thing no longer worth chasing. These old sunrods we kept are near worthless. They last not nearly long enough in this dank place. The drow I pursue have led me deep into the ground and I know not where they go. The Underdark? I hope not.

Arvoreen... I've been praying to him, but perhaps he senses a shallowness in my prayers. Perhaps he sees such as me not fit for servitude. But still I pursue. I cannot let my brother's death, my village's sacking, stand unpunished.

I've yet to chance an encounter with any living thing in these depths. A blessing, maybe, to go undetected. But it would be nice knowing that more is capable of life in these halls than a fool of a halfling, chasing vengeance and playing at war.

Flinthook Brittlebow, Unknown date, The Hundredth and Fifty First Year. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~