She was weary. The sun was not even high in the sky, and she was weary. Sweeping a strand of thick flaming auburn hair from her eyes, the smith worked on the bellows, building the fire in her forge a little hotter. Why was it that she had such trouble from that foolish and vain guard. He didn’t want a woman working on his armour? Fine! Let him find someone else to do the repairs.

Xandilif cleared her throat...and continued to stare at Hawke. "Whatever you got in yer bag, you better dump it now, Gwaelion.....Where'd you go...and what is this about a witch?"

Hawke lifted his head and gave Lif a dark, challenging look, though he was surprised she had used his Gondorian name. Then he turned his face until he met Finchley's tearful eyes. "...I went to Angmar. It seemed to take ages, but I..."

((A letter sent northward along the Brandywine river. Carried by Buderick, written in long, elegant letters and kept in a pristine envelope.))

Whom ever receives this letter,

I am writing on the behalf of Reginard Rosethorn, owner of the Rosethorn Pipe-Weed Company. We have heard of your interest in regular supply of pipe-weed to your lands and we have a very fine offer.

Upon parting ways with the caravan in Buckland, Buderick asks that Wisterhya tell Derosyn of his absence and give her a small gift. The gift is this: A plain matchbox with an oak wood button, a letter, and a sleek green stone of sorts. The letter reads:

"My dear Derosyn.

Mortals:  A Case Study (A Counter-proposal)

Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon

10 Quellë in the Reckoning of Imladris

Bree has proven thus far to be the ire and bane of my very existence. I thought Dale could be unfeeling towards those in urgent need, but this place - suspicious and wary of outsiders - is clearly much worse about it. They look upon my clothes and hear my accented words and turn me away. They care not about the story I have to share; the siblings trailing behind me with a look of desperation in their eyes.

Wretched are the drums, those that beat,
Unending till the war is won, the life has ended.
The drums that beat through rage and lust,
Love and sorrow.
Onwards, it pushes
the red-clad army through an endless maze;
Twisting,
Turning,
Winding,
Grinding,
Pushing and
Charging till the end.
Where the wind stops blowing,
And the feet cease marching.
Where a darkness encroaches and embraces;

I should have supposed that the opportunity was always going to be too good to be true. A caravan of Erebor dwarves and Barding merchants heading westwards seemed like the perfect chance for me to get away from Dale once and for all. I needed a fresh start. The Watchmen of Dale were at their wits’ end with me, and the folk of Lake-town were getting rougher with those they deemed criminal or unsavory.