It was as familiar a sound as any for the seasoned traveller: the lurch of downtrodden sand and the crumbling gravel beneath those ample cartwheels. The oxcart trudged beneath the weight while Hawick sheltered his daughter within his timeworn black cloak. His fingers gripped feverishly around the reins as they rode into the onset of a cold winter and its unrelenting winds, into a pass beset by a bleak and an abandoned pasture of drafty hovels and decrepit wattle fences. “Will there be no orcs in Bree, da?” Jenna inquired carefully – her frail voice barely reaching enough volume through the shrill wind. She quickly reminded herself that no words can provide an equally conducive answer than any; as Hawick kept silent; drunk on mourning. The scent of molten flesh still caught in his nose, and the forlorn shrieks of Jenna’s mother, burned alive, continued tormenting his ears – His stomach turned and the oxcart braked harshly, causing the animals’ protesting wails. It wasn’t until the man vaulted down into the icy road that indeed his scarce breakfast came out, and two perturbed eyes of his daughter watched him anxiously. “Are you alright, da?” she faintly uttered, still trembling sickly in her father’s woollen drape as it whipped and formed around the gusts. She unconditionally laid trust in her old man, sweetly innocent like a child, firmly believing he could solve all their scruples. Seeing the stilled glimmer of her dulled grey eyes lead Hawick up to his feet, and he clambered into the cart, smiling reassuringly. While he washed his mouth with watered-down wine from his supply, a bell tolled in the distance. Although it caught them with wonder, nothing could sound as promising as the hint of civilisation. The oxcart gradually drew closer to the distant hamlet, and Hawick divulged the town with a look of cold acuity.

“Bree.”