Spritely feet hopped down from the thin and ever so slightly crooked steps of a small and rather colourful wagon, they were chasing the sound of a singing kettle, and a bubbling pot. Caring hands reached down as cracking knees bent, and the whistling grew more quiet as it was taken from the small fire and laid to rest on a patch of dirt. A wooden spoon ended its rest and began stirring the pot, a stew of mostly mutton and potatoes came to life and smells of chives and sage jumped into the air, filling it once again with a scent which would summon a hunger in most decent folk.
The Greenway had a certain quiet about it, unnerving if you've ever heard the rumours of its once prosperous and mercantile ways, you could almost see the ghosts wandering to and fro on unfinished business. The travelling man looked back to the wagon as it rocked a fraction, someone was stirring inside at last. He didn't blame her, it had been a busy night, dancing to the flute and singing songs as old as Bree-Town itself. “Little sprite, little sprite! Won't you come out? I have the remedy to all your brandy given woes!” A quiet utter of laughter crept from the man's lips and he placed a hand to soothe his own aching head.
Birds sang and darted in and out of their sanctuary in birch and ash trees just across the dying road. The sense of accomplishment over the past few days was immense, it threatened to throw this old worker's eyes into a fit of tears, he looked down to his calloused hands, hard worked through a hard youth. He then took a piece of charcoal from his pocket which had been sharpened to a blunt point, and he grinned and stood straight, brushing his friendly muttonchops into order. As he gazed off over to the distant farmland and lakes, he tipped his hat back with a finger and his chest swelled, The Greenway had a way of winning you over.
