#2 An entry in a battered leather journal...

4th Firstbreeze, 812
 
The rest of this ragtag group has gone to sleep, so now is as good a time as any to update this journal. Taking up contracts and vanquishing were-rats for a handful of coin is not what I had in mind when we fled Highland Rim, but Tymora has laid this path before me for a reason. Or so I hope.
 
A half-orc who is my height four times over, a druid who seems plagued by his own shadow, a monk inside her own head more often than not, some wood-elf ranger who mutters to himself about a growing worm and a dwarf who is none to keen on dwarves. A motley crew if there ever were one. Still, I suppose I have some gold ore and a meat pie out of the arrangement so far, and they are fairly decent company after a few bad ales.
 
We are due to make a delivery to the Dwarven Excavation nearby once we have rested for the night, and I cannot fathom why but the thought fills me with unease. Perhaps I am simply drawing on Thrain’s own anxiety about the trip; though he was alight with our victory against the were-rat, he seems to have withdrawn in recent hours. It could, of course, be his grief at leaving behind that beautiful bear-skin rug to rot away in a basement.
 
While I write this, I contemplate the rest of our group. The monk, Lorelai, and the ranger are both deep asleep, though I confess that I thought elves didn’t need to sleep…and when the lead of my pencil snapped earlier I am certain I saw Faen twitch. Feigning sleep, then, the pair of them. Frederick at least, seems to genuinely be sleeping, though he is prone to night terrors. Azriel, too, curled around her giant battle axe.
 
I don’t like to go anywhere without friends, and usually I am fast to make them, but while the ale lifted all of our spirits, I can tell we are not at ease with one another. Not friendly. Not yet, if I have anything to say about it. An adventure to a Dwarven Excavation would not be complete without some friends, and after the mess in Newbarrow, I could certainly use some.
 
I’m sure that Faen knows a thing or two about regret which we could bond over, but I confess, he is a little too grim for my tastes. Azriel on the other hand, I am sure that we would be fast friends, if only she didn’t have to crouch down for us to have a conversation. Perhaps we will find a cart along the way, and I won’t need to run to keep up with her on the road.
 
Tomorrow is a new day, a new opportunity for both coin and for friendships, and Tymora knows I will endeavour to see it to fruition even it means diverging from the path I had intended for this season.
 
Fortune favours the bold.