It had been a strange few months for Furley...
A lot had changed since he had seen and smelled the unsightly sights of Bree-Land, and he wasn't sure he was entirely ready for it. He had left in anger... so much anger. His closest friend, Deorla, had murdered a ranger whilst under his assignment, and he had been disgraced by the Bree-Guard, and ostracised from his town of Combe, labelled a conspirator himself. He'd narrowly avoided prison over the whole incident, under the condition that he resign and never return to the guard. Gods, until he'd met her, he hadn't even known who the rangers were, and still didn't, really. She'd put him in touch with them as he'd tried to sort out the border threats and didn't know where to begin, and then she did this!
Heathstraw didn't blink when given the chance to remove Furley from the guard; he'd always hated him after Furley had angrily blamed him for not staffing Archet or reacting to the increasing threat. He didn't hesitate to remove him. Angry, infuriated and incensed, Furley had travelled south in anger, chasing the rumours of this 'Sharkey', that had kept propping up around Bree-Land more and more.
What he found was far more than he ever could have bargained for. Rohan had been pillaged and burned by the orcs, uruks, dunlendings and brigands, and it was almost on his knees. In the Wold, Furley had stumbled upon town upon town being razed, and his rage still flowing through him, had taken sword and spear and exorcised his aggression on the invaders.
Now, riding home north, leaving the boy of Bree behind and re-emerging as a man of Rohan, he dreaded seeing his home town more and more. The ride was slow going, and he was lost in thought as his horse, Calista, clopped along steadily, sensing his anguish. He wasn't banished, though, so what did he fear?
Maybe becoming the boy he once was, confined by the rolling hills of the north? Facing up to the jeers and the judgement, the shunning of his own childhood town? No. In truth he didn't know, but he felt rather empty, lost, humourless, betrayed, and torn. And he also felt a rage inside him, like he wished he could wash the whole of Bree-Land in fire and bring it to his knees, and unleash all the hatred inside of him...
But alas, it was his homeland. He had friends here, a mentor he considered family, and a woman in Combe who had taken him in like a mother. He couldn't truly abandon them to their fate that gathered beyond the borders, ready to strike at them.
In his new, Wold-ade, overly-polished armour, as if he was trying to estrange himself further to the people of Bree, he rode nervily into town, and quickly found his way into the Pony, attempting to avoid eye-contact, when a young, green-eyed, fiery haired barmaid came over, and asked for his order.
As he looked into her eyes, the first Bree-lander he had spoken to in nearly a year, his face softened. He was back, and he knew he couldn't leave again until he accomplished what he had originally set out to do.
