Promises and preparations

I look up at the trees and see leaves fall, turning yellow, brown and brittle on their way to the ground. They reach it and crumble, by animal paw or a man's boot. I feel the biting cold set in, growing stronger with the wind rolling down the mountain slopes and gliding over the cold waters of the lake. I see the bears on a feeding frenzy, storing fat for their winter slumber, lumbering slowly to their dens.
It is time that I return to my den as well.

Bree-land may not be where we come from, but it is where my mother built her shack, where I have built mine. It will be where my children will build theirs one day. It is also where my niece stays, and for her, I have a treat. Even after the war in the distant land have ended, as the rumours whisper, I did not dare to brave the ruined city on the lakeside. Too many beasts and monsters, and worst of all, too many people call it home. But I have found a brass brooch for her coming of name, as I promised I would find an ornament worthy of it for that day. I'm excited to hear what name will she choose.

Lesser promises also need to be kept, and for that, I hunted enough. Coneys, other than for feed, will be used for a warm collar for the blacksmith's wife, in return for him sharpening my knife when it dulled. The fox fur will make another fine collar, for the townsguard member whose daughter fancied herself a noblewoman of old tales. Sounds foolish to me, but who am I to judge? The girl is young, I haven't been better at her age, and her father helped me out when my bag was stolen on the market. I still need to find fur and leather for the winter gloves. Rob Thistlewool will use them well, and he deserves so - his fletching techniques are surprisingly good, for a fisherman, and when my arrows warped last winter, from my own careless handling of them, he helped. This winter, that favour will be returned and my spirit will be lighter for it.

In the morning, I shall check the snares and make way for Bree. The city and the home.