Melindir's Diary
by Melindir

The pages from the diary have all been lost, but a few pages remain concerning
Melindir's impressions of his life in Tharbad under the current authorities.
It is rumoured that the diary was recovered when Melindir had been found
strangled:

    I walk the streets of Tharbad as the red sun sinks beyond the
horizon.  They are not pretty streets, covered with the grime of the
years, but they keep the ruts from forming.  Walking south, I stop at
a bridge and stop there a moment, listening to the sound of the
running water and looking up at what few stars are already visible in
the rapidly waning daylight.  I am still standing there, looking up,
as night falls.

    A menacing voice stirs me out of my reverie.  "Move along," it
says, in a tone that brooks no opposition.  "No loitering after
sundown."  I turn to see a member of the city guard.  His face is
young, but shows already the great bitterness that comes from the work
that he does.  He looks like he would enjoy nothing better that
evening than to beat me to a pulp, for even in the fading light he can
see my face and knows that I am not a citizen of the nefarious City of
Thieves.  I do not give him the excuse he needs to die on my blade and
move on.

    So young to be so bitter, I think.  But there are no old town
guard, just as there has never been an old Chief.  They never last
that long.  I finger the lump under my left glove and wonder what
drives these men to their suicidal posts.  Even the Chief rarely
survives his first few years in office.  It is no wonder that they are
bitter -- they know that their days are numbered.  The great Ring of
Iron that has been for so long the symbol of office in Tharbad draws
the greatest warriors and mages from across Arda, just long enough to
murder the Chief and leave again.  A new Chief has been recently
promoted into office, I hear.  I wonder how long it will be before
they come for him.  If they come too soon, the ring that is being
forged for him will go to his successor, as its crafting has not been
finished.

    That ring...  forged of the purest iron underneath the city and
enchanted in a manner that may never be known to those not apprenticed
to the city Warlock, it confers the protection of its material to the
wearer, causing many a blow to miss its would-be fatal mark.  Ironic,
that a device designed for the protection of the head of the town
would be the primary reason for his quick demise.  The Warlock can't
make them fast enough to keep up with the slaughter.  

    My thoughts are once again interrupted, this time by the telltale
whisper of air that denotes a sudden movement behind me.  I twist to
one side and draw my sword, feeling a blade pierce my jerkin and
deflect off of my toughened skin.  The assassin has misjudged the
skill of his target, however, and I make short work of him.  I wipe my
blade on the corpse and search it for valuables.  Pocketing the few
coins I find I rise to continue on to find a city guard looking down
at me with contempt.  "Prob'ly think yer a hero, don't you," he sneers
at me before continuing on.  I look back at the corpse for a moment
and wonder if they once knew each other, perhaps as children, before
their life paths separated.

	 I walk the streets of Tharbad, and under the cloak of the night
contemplate the strangeness of the city.  The common thief and the
city guard can pass each other on the street without a word being
spoken.  But the local thieves know the rules and with the occassional
error they leave the citizens alone.  As long as they do the guards
are content to leave them with their foreign prey.  There is a certain
camaraderie between them that comes perhaps from familiarity.  Some of
the greatest rogues in all the lands have come here to settle and to
teach their skills.  There are things to be learned here that can be
learned nowhere else.  The twisting motion that helped saved me a scar
earlier tonight I learned from a retired thief many years ago, before
he was killed by a foreigner to settle some long-forgotten grudge.  I
hear one of his best apprentices has returned to the city to take his
place, but I have had no reason to pay him a visit.

    Perhaps it is for this reason that Tharbad has never received the
assistance from foreign lands that many other cities of Arda enjoy.  
Still, I must wonder that isolation is properly deserved.  Many a
travelling group has been glad of the skills of a thief, and if not
for Tharbad, from where would they come?  But the lure of power is too
much for many a young warrior and the cycle continues.  I finger the
ring I wear on my left hand, hidden by the leather of my glove, and
remember the man I slew to obtain it.

    The citizens had fled to their houses at the sound of combat.  In
my imagination, I remember the sound of their weeping as they prepared
to lose more friends and loved ones, though I could not have heard
such a sound above the din of battle.  We killed every guard brave (or
foolish) enough to confront us that day.  The chief was in his
quarters.  We broke the door and slew the warlock immediately.
Without him and his guard, the Chief had no chance.  Weakened by the
blows falling from all sides, the impact of my shield bashing his own
aside caught him off guard and turned his body enough to expose his
vulnerable side.  The memory of him pulling himself off my sword and
his faint smile of contempt will stay with me until I meet a similar
end.  It was more than I could deal with at the time and I separated
his head from his body and pulled the ring from his hand.  I might as
well have scalped him then and hung the trophy on my belt, as is the
custom among the mountain orcs.  We looted the town treasury before we
left and celebrated with it at a tavern some ways out of town.  The
serving girl I took to bed that night was unwilling, but well paid,
and her father the innkeeper looked the other way.  The building that
used to house them is empty and run down now.  Nobody has lived there
for years.  

    I walk the streets of Tharbad and pray for forgiveness each dawn
rising.  The ring that I wear has saved my life more than once but
carries with it the blood of many.  It would be pointless to return it
now, though, so I wear it with as much of my torn dignity I can pull
to myself and attempt to make what amends I can, even if my wisdom and
understanding have come too late in life for me to make amends for all
that I have done.  The rose I planted at the abandoned inn has grown
into a wild bush, but nobody sees it who understands or cares.  The
city has been wounded beyond healing, and will forever be a paranoid
and violent place but I walk the streets at night and see to it that
those who walk the city in peace or in its defense continue to do so
unmolested.  I am only a simple swordsman, and it will be many years
before I can bring together enough wealth to purchase my citizenship
here, and probably more before the guard understand my purpose and
come to respect me, but I keep the thought in front of me as the
beacon marking my next advancement in life.

	 I walk the streets of Tharbad as the sun rises.  They are not
pretty streets, but they are the streets of my home.