Journal of Guard Laewe during the Winter of the Long Icicles

Day of the Sorrowful Wind

It has been a long time since I kept a journal of any kind.

. . . .

I suppose I should start with who I am and why I've have picked up this useful habit again. My name, or as much of it as anyone needs to know is Achen Laewe. I go by a number of other names mostly bestowed upon me by the mice that meet me and walk my paths for a while. I was born some time ago, I forget the number of seasons that have past . . . I have lived through the Weasel Wars and the Black Axe Rebellion . . . that should give you an idea of my experience with the world. I have lived through the death of my father – though I never really knew him, I knew him better than most. I've lived through winter blizzards and spring rains and summer droughts and chill Autumn frosts. But I've seen a world of winter diamonds, flown with the spring chicks, talked to bees in a lazy summer field, and tasted the spicy juice of a frost apple late in the season. So I suppose I haven't been to badly off.

My father died last winter. I wasn't there to hold his hand or hear his last words – though I know what they were. I didn't watch his body burn to nurturing ashes on a Lockhaven pyre. I never said goodbye to him, never acknowledged his lessons, never told him 'I forgive you' and that, I suppose, is why I put my pen to barkpaper now. To tell him all this and to show others that I'm more than I appear.

That I'm more than just watchful eyes in the wood.