It is another evening here in Bree. Everyone is at the Prancing Pony as usual. The gamblers gamble, the musicians perform, while the drunkards drink. I hear the shouting and the twinkle of lute strings being plucked accompanied by baritone voices. Butterbur is trying to sell his new drink, Redweed Mead. I've tried it once, tasted like a raw squirrel slathered in vegetable juice. Somehow, I can say that taste is not unusual. Slowly, the crowd dies out as the workers who have spent their newly gained wages go home half-awake and the singers put away their instruments. Only the crackle of the fire remains as the night closes.
It's hard to imagine the kinds of darkness that lie outside of Bree and inside of it. Safely inside their homes are men, women, and little children. We Bree-landers are content with our lives, even though it is hard at times. In Beggar's Alley there are unfortunate families, but even the children there can play their games. It is interesting how Bree's wheels turn; roughly, but ever so quietly. As if it is in its own world.
