Carefully applied poultices of herbs and raw honey had healed Bri's hands quickly. There is evidence of her encounter in the wood by way of some jagged scars left on the heels of her hands. Otherwise, no other indication of that day remained visibly. Tucked away in her bedroll, which is tied to the back of Monk's saddle, the arrow pulled from the dead orc is hidden from plain sight. Because of his bravery, Sybri had a new found respect for the little horse. She had always loved Monk, but now she viewed him as truly her only remaining family. Monk, incidentally, had been given his name by Sybri's father because of his hooded eyes.
One afternoon, after a gruelling day of clearing and resetting traps in the Chetwood then tanning many stacks of hides at the Combe tradesman building, the exhausted woman walked down to the Comb and Wattle Inn for a pint. Granted the ale in the place is as light as the chicken feathers floating around in the inn, it is the best the little village had to offer. At the least, it provided the citizens a place to gather and the cooking was good, though common and a bit heavy.
As Bri sat at one of the dirty tables, enjoying her cup, a few brawny men wandered into the inn and stood near the bar, drinking and talking. Though it isn't as if the hunter was eavesdropping but in the small tavern room, one couldn't help but hear any conversation that wasn't kept in whispers. The two men were boasting about how much better ale and life was in Rohan. They continued to belittle the lives and people of Combe and Bree-land in general.
Sybri had heard enough. She rose from her seat, walked straight over to Liz, the bar keep, and said loudly enough to be heard anywhere in the room, "Here you are Liz, thank you for dinner, it was exceptional considering it was not a recipe from Rohan," then set her empty dishes down. From there, aggravated and annoyed, Sybri left the inn.
The entire way she rode back to Archet she fumed and discussed the rude men with her horse. How dare they insult their guests, the people of Combe. How stupid was it of them to stand in an inn in Bree-land and spout out loud about how common Bree-landers are and how lousy a place it was. Had the table been turned and this had happened in their homeland, Bri wondered if the Rohirrim would have been as polite or if she would be headless by now.
By the time they arrived in Archet, Sybri had calmed down. After she fed Monk and given him a light grooming, she returned to her home, which is a corner in the town were the stockade and a building met. This spot is currently her home. A campfire for warmth and stars above for her ceiling, it is all she has for a home. Monk is now her only relative, and her only possessions are her arms, a few taxidermist tools she lifted from the cinders and ash and one set of clothing, tattered and worn, she had been given by one of the townspeople of Archet after the fire. Before that, all she had to wear were her bed clothes.
Drawing her legs to her chest, then wrapping herself with her bedroll as a shawl, Sybri began to doze off into sleep. The last thought she had was that she hoped she never again had to suffer the presence of another person from Rohan.
Little did she know, her hope would soon be dashed...
