The Darkening of Mirkwood

1st Entry - Written with bloody fingers

Only the most vile things live here....

I begin this Journal with fingers coated in the blood of the dead and the dirt of the grave.

Narvi and I have only recently finished putting the last bit of dirt over the bodies of the dwarven merchants that we discovered after Sigmund accidentally lead us off the path and deeper into the Mirkwood forest.

Narvi…a Dwarf himself, is currently pouring over a journal that we found stashed within the rotted and soiled sacks of the Merchants wagons.

He believes that it belonged to his father and might hold clues as to where he and my mother have run off to. Yet at the moment I feel as if all hope of finding any trail of them has been lost.

I had failed to find yet a single woodman’s body among the torn and incarcerated sacks of meat that once been a party of living dwarves.

I would not even be able to hold the small sliver of hope that flickers within my heart that my mother is still alive.

I cannot say if this accident of fate was for the better or worse, for we are still not closer to finding my Mother; nor Narvi’s farther, and as the sun slowly sets upon this dark and twisted forest.

I find my back stiffing with the apprehension of having to spend yet another night surrounded by the foliage of the damned.

How did my mother survive this place…

Why would she chose ever to come back here. For I see not but the ruin of life here, in a place that should be teaming with it…..

But I must not lose focus. I must try and keep my mind from slipping into the dark, keep my thoughts from the shadows of this place.


Already I fear that even after just a few short weeks of trudging after a month old trail, that some part of this foul place has seeped into me, and tainted my very soul with its corruption.

I once asked my mother why she never spoke of her adventures here, never boasted of her great conquest as the other Woodsmen did.

When they sat across the fire’s from one another and passed jugs of ale from one hand to another. Everyone with a story, or a tale tall that that used to set my small childlike heart flutter, as I sat perched upon my father’s knee.

Or, when I was much older, beside the other men, a fresh kill of venison roasting within the flames and the heat of are most resent hunt still cooling against my skin.

The very forest of Rhosgobel would seem at times to sing with the sounds of insects and night birds as the night skies above would bloom with stars so bright it was almost a kind of day.

There are no stars here at least not the ones that the elves used to sing praises to.

For here the nights are either deathly cold or muggy hot and often both within the same span of an evening.

When we do see the sky it often through twisted branches covered by sickly leaves and cobwebs that I swear exist only to stick and itch at your skin as you walk. And each night seemed to filled with the stretching and crying of dying or…..

worse things that by all things holy seemed to….at least for the time being….fear the light of our fire.

I know now why she never spoke of this place; my mother,

and why it was only from others that heard of the tales about her,

and others like her, tracked down and killed the mighty Werewolf of Mirkwood.

Because this is an unholy place, inhabited by darkness and shadow, where hope cannot live and only the most vile of life can survive……….



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