The road stretched on, the old stones broken and grass grew between but it still stood, marking the old route that ran north to south. The day was warm and the only sounds were the rhythmic click of the oaken staff and the hushed scrape of the small footfalls on the Old Road. She knew who had laid the stones she now tread, the men of the west who came and cut down the forests to build their cities. All now fallen but the land never recovered and it was this long memory her people held. Of strangers from the sea, who came with steel and a hunger for timber to build their innumerable ships. Those days were long ago but not forgotten, even as the stone weathered away.
A shadow passed over the woman and she looked up, her hood falling back to reveal her long chestnut hair. She shielded her eyes from the sun as the craban circled over head, cawing. She waved her hand and the bird dipped down, perching with a flutter of black feathers on the top of her walking staff.
"If only I had wings like you," she said as the craban preened, "I would not be so foot sore. But we have miles to go before we can rest. Or I can rest, you lazy bird."
As she stepped forward once more, Gwennol smiled to herself as her craban was content to perch and come along for the ride. The journey had been long, longer than even her migration from her homeland of Dunland into the wilds of Enedwaith. But it was at the bidding of a greater power that she walked this road, the land called to her. Whispers of the spirts had come to her within the derudh circle among the oaks and the ash trees. War was coming but Gwennol cared not to be a part of it, she had seen enough of war in her tender years and the thought to experience more of it sickened her. There was a disturbance in the forests, an awakening of an older sentience that was becoming aware of the impending doom.The dreams would not leave her and the voices that murmured in the sound of wind among the leaves and the flowing streams drove her to finally pick up her bag and staff and set a northern path.
Long days and weeks passed, Gwennol silently moved through the wilds, trouble with strangers though they were few and far between. Past the great ruins among the marshes, she began to encounter more people on the road. Most were ragged travelers, refugees pushed out of their land by the pressure from the war bands of the south. They did not look like the Algraig or Dunlendings, their clothing was different and they spoke another language. She shied away from most, like a doe among the trees, for many of the people were desperate and hungry, quite willing to bash someone's head in for the meager contents of their pack. On rare occasion, she would interact with some of the refugees, especially those with children amongst them as she trusted they would be less prone to violence. Among them she learned some of what was called the Common tongue or Westron and though she was not fluent by her journey's end, she could understand some.
One word she heard repeated among the campfires was "Bree", and she soon came to understand it was the name of the northern lands or a great village there. The refugees spoke of their hopes that there would be land and food for all once they reached these Breelands.
