Dearest Finn,

I am keeping this series of journals as you recommended, so that these pages will serve as memories when my own mind fails.  Already what was once a great atlas of experiences, thoughts, and recollections, is now nothing but a white sheet, an empty canvas.  Yet the fear still exists that I may misplace these journals, or forget your sage advice altogether.  In time, I fear I will cease to remember my own name.

Thankfully, my more immediate concerns allow me a moment of respite from the worries of tomorrow.  As I attempt to cross the Jerall Mountains, I now understand why you countenanced your dread when I told you of my plans.  However, it is not the ogres or ice wraiths that claim the most lives here.  It is the hunger, and the cold.

Yesterday I found a camp, just off the main trail.  A young woman was seated by a pile of wood, dressed in a black linen robe.  Her body shivered awkwardly, and she greeted me through a chatter of teeth.  Joselyn was her name, and she was having trouble lighting the fire.

She claimed to be well versed in Destruction Magic, which was not surprising, given her garb.  In fact, she was able to handle all but the most rudimentary of spells.  Flames.  When she said the word, I couldn’t help but notice a deep sadness in her eyes, as if her mind had recalled some long forgotten regret.  At such times, I am almost thankful my own memory fails me.

Her eyes shone with a similar melancholy when I asked her if she had studied at the College.  She only nodded her head.  To make conversation, I inquired who was teaching Restoration there, knowing full well I wouldn’t remember the name.  Fortunately, this journal may prove more resilient than I.  Anise, she said.  She studied under a woman named Anise.

– Lathgwen