I am sitting in the Elfsong Tavern, drinking a nice mead and reflecting on our recent adventure. I have faced my nemesis, the red dragon, five times now. The first time I hate to recollect, but it is seared into my consciousness. The second time, on the cliff face, I was so startled that I only reacted. But this time, this time I went looking for them. I feel a combination of revulsion and thrill when I think how we chased them down and killed them. I, of course, did little more than serve as bait, but I initiated the mission, which should count for something... There are three less red dragons in the world. The halflings are moved to a safe place. (We hope.) We have picked up some more treasures and I have learned some new spells, and have scrolls to learn more. The Foxes survived. Why then, do I have this melancholy sense, "is that all there is?" I want to be happy, but every step seems to be sending the Company of the Winged Fox toward death and destruction. I still don't know the deep dark secret that Alfred was going to reveal to me the day he died. I could go home to Ardania to ask my Father, but that would be folly with the Blackcloaks on our trail. What of Elensul? Apparently they have realized that their assassin failed. How long before another appears, eager to take a prize back to his or her evil masters?

Where does my Lia fit into all of this? She is strong, yes, and powerful in magick, but is it my place to drag her into the coming storm? Would that we were both simple folk, free to live and love as we pleased, a small farm, a batch of children... But no, I mustn't allow myself to wish, for there is some sort of geas on me, of that at least I am sure. And I know from all of the old tales, that a geas will not be foiled.

More later...