In a time of peace, in the still of the night, many long years after the war of the ring, you happen upon a warm inviting cabin somewhere between the Misty Mountains and the Greenwood. You knock once, twice and a third time, forcing the door askew. Calling into it's depths rewards you with only silence. The master is out. A fire warms the hearth and you cautiously open the door further. What could it hurt to wait inside and warm yourself by the fire?
The cabin was sparsely furnished, a bed, a table and a couple of chairs. There were no tapestries, no pictures, no rugs on the floor. A few tomes lay open to one end of the table, covered by a thick layer of dust. Small stacks of journals in the corners seemed to be orderly but in no better shape save for one that lay at the corner of the table closest to the fire.
It's leather was once dark but well worn from repeated handling. It's binding loose, allowing some of the pages to slip from it and float to the floor as you pick it up to open it. Hastily you bend to pick them up. Drawings? A pond? That must be the one you had passed just outside.
You place it back into the journal and look at the other that had fallen. The cabin.
You sit slowly in the chair beside the fire, placing the picture carefully back into the journal and began to turn the pages gently.
