Six human years and eighty-seven days from the day I have left Lothlorien.
Half-breed orc bandits has been troubling the area and the men who live here for a long time, I suppose. Many of them have told me I would have their prayers if I could do something about it. I could not ignore their plea. After an advice from the man who's been considered as their leader, I've managed to sneak through the half-orcs' main camp, to take down the head of the bandits, maybe scare them off or make them go away. I could handle some who were unlucky enough to spot me, but I had no chance aganist the leader and his four well-trained guard. It's extremely shameful to admit, but I had to abscond. They are far beyond my skill. Encountering them alone is nothing but a foolish mistake.
I am thinking of sending a letter to him, to Frostwhisper, who've helped me not only once, but twice in my life. He didn't seem to remember me when he offered his hand to me while I have been followed by a weird man at Bree; but I did remember him so well as it was just yesterday the helped us when the goblins attacked us. He was kind enough to encourage me for asking more of his help if needed. There is no one else I can ask. There is not even one, men, elf, or another, that I know and trust. My acts alone won't be any help to this people.
I can only hope my words will reach to his hands through the Prancing Pony.
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