Bree

A line of wagons extends a quarter-mile out from the eastern gate of Bree-town. At the front of the line a gate-watcher handles each of the merchants, collecting their bills of inventory and checking their trading permits. 'You're all set, sir. Now move along', he says, lackadaisically ushering the next wagon inside.

The sunlight was warm in the field, but a cool wind often danced by. Elane sat beneath the shade of a tree, the dappled light from the canopy above bespeckling her as the leaves rustled in the wind. Resting her head back against the trunk of the tree, her eyes gazed out over the rolling grassland. The peaceful ambience was lovely, a welcome change from the bustle and noise of Bree. Elane adjusted her shawl, her feet pressed into the earth, cool from the shade. It was times like this where she would become lost in her thoughts, running off with her imagination.

"Tis' a sure thing", Oates had assured me. "Mayor Graeme is crazy about cheese!"

Lucey sits outside until she is completely relaxed. Her heartbeat was steady and she felt like she could breathe again. She sighed and began her tap tap tap back inside. She decided to take the back steps through the kitchens. If there were still many people in the Inn she could avoid them all that way and head to her room for a little quiet. She swings her staff back and forth in front or her and feels it tap something as she walked along.

Lucey tapped her way down the hall as she headed for the stairs leading down into the main room of the Inn. She counted under her breath, though to be honest she didn't have to . She has spent the last three month walking around the Inn at the Prancing Pony. She walked inside and outside of the stone building so many times she can walk it in her sleep. No, she doesn't need to make a big show about tapping and counting and shuffling her feet. She doesn't do it so she can see them. She does it so they can see her. 

Fang would be fine in a sennight or perhaps a fortnight; this much Heriwulf was sure of. He'd removed the clumsy but effective field sutures, cleaned the wound thoroughly, put in cleaner sutures, and inspected the hound for lasting muscle damage, finding none. Hounds are smart and sturdy and they know how to take care of their own hurts better than men. And their injuries were less likely, at least while the hound was young, to fill with angry heat, the sure sign of danger.

The damp, torn and dirty boot seeps traces of water out from it as another step is taken down the cobblestone path. Tired, green eyes lift up to the gate of Bree, while frail fingers grasp at the reins of his horse. Coarsely, he speaks, saying something to himself in a moment of hesitation, as though he himself can't believe it, his voice struggling to start with a forced whistle, "Hhh...Home."

Time for a new start in a new land. After years of service in the Rangers, fighting in the North to drive the forces of Angmar back, I have been reassigned to a small Ranger contingent in a valley outside of Bree that requested aid with some dire problem they were facing. "A threat from Angmar of unparalleled proportions" the letter said. This is to be a permanent posting. Service until death.