paradisa | action, dictated.

[ The journal is often cruel, such as now.

There's only anxious breathing to be heard at first, a quick patter of bare feet and the sound of a room being torn apart; books tumbling to the floor, tea cups shattering and even the bed toppling over. Panic gives one unnatural strength. Soon there's a tiny voice muttering to itself, growing in volume and pitch. ]

No. No. No. Where is it? Who took it? Bilbo. The Lady. Who? How dare they? It's mine. It was given to me. I claimed it. It's mine.

[ Now the bookshelf falls to the floor, accompanying a frustrated groan after Frodo has exhausted every hiding place. Disheveled and visibly anxious, he patters out the door to wander the hallways with an uncharacteristic urgency. He must find it or else-- or else-- it frightens him more than death itself. ]

[ The message is brief and rashly written, the letters jumping all over the page unlike Frodo's commonly firm, flowing script. But he doesn't dare say it to her so the ink must speak on his behalf. ]

It's gone.

[ ooc; so it begins! ]