The sun had lowered itself beyond that of the western hills of Bree, the sky now blanketed in a deep iridescent red, clear of all clouds. The inside of the Pony was quiet for dusk, a brief flurry of patrons had been and gone and passed to more private quarters. A gentle song resonated about the walls of the near empty inn, clear and light in melody. Upon closer inspection the source of such a voice flowed out from behind the worn wooden counter and tankards. A woman raised herself from behind it, placing a cloth against the ale spattered counter and lightly resting one arm against it.
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The Prancing Pony
