Littletin, a recap

Here I sit in a paw-dunk farming town called Little-tin. Correction, here I sit in the jail of a paw-dunk farming town called Little-tin. The charge is murder, MURDER! Me, Ashlar Hunting Hawk, son of Walter, direct descendant and only surviving name sake of the great Ashlar Hunting Hawk. My guilt or innocence is not what is going to save my hide here. Nor will my service to Brother Brill and the Church of the Light, or my families service training scouts and guides for the empire. The fact that no one has neither seen mine or the other horse in question will.
Its days like these that make me think of home, of what I miss. Sleeping in a soft warm bed. Mothers cooking. Leading the nobles in the hunt. Training raw recruits in the ways of the woods.
Sarah. I miss Sarah most of all. Her long red hair, haunting blue eyes. The haunting blue eyes I am betrothed to. If it wasn't for this little foray, this mission for the church or my fathers blind ambition for noble-hood we would be wed in the spring. I doubt I'll be home by then.
So much time has already passed and still no end in sight. What was it again, oh yes the fires. The fires that still burn. The fires that have most likely been set by agents from Gath to burn out our food crops. Starve our people to win the war! This war has been waged since before my grandfather was a swaddling on his fathers knee. This is nothing I can change, best not to think of trying.
The dawn cannot come too soon! I want some warm spiced ale and a bit of smoke. Sitting in this cell is no way to spend my first night in from the wild. Damn the mouth of that druid. For a man who wants to be one with nature, you would think he would accept that death is a part of life. And god damn that vagabond that claims to be a knight! A knighthood he claims with only some sort of papers to back it up! From Gath no less! And damn myself for not keeping the reins of my horse myself to begin with!
What was I thinking giving his reins to the Baron? A gentleman of his advanced age is never to blame. The fact he wakes in the morning with dry trousers is enough for him to be expected to do. How is it that a man can be so old, yet so full of life? His stories at the camp helps make this time of constriction move a bit faster. Of course the fact that he is a practitioner of the arcane arts makes him one to be a bit leery of. At least his company is pleasant. The same cannot be said of the vagabond or of the zealot of the Light! Both of those men need the bedding of a good hard working whore to curl their toes and maybe some of their zeal will ebb!
And what was Osborne thinking when we found that ancient elf in the forest? One does not out live, from what we know, his entire race of people that does not have some skill! I was more than happy to oblige the Baron and let him have a private conversation with the elf, but no! Knights and their "codes"! Os gets himself en-spelled, strips down to his loin cloth, heads towards his home at all hours, and gets himself attacked by some undead creature that I have to deal with as the Baron loses my frackin' horse! DAMN EVERYONE I WANT SOME WARM SPICED ALE!