The village on the hill was her destination, Gwennol was certain of it and yet she was confused as to why. The symbol of the boar was everywhere, on banners and carved from stone and spouting water. In the fields surrounding the town, there were signs of boars in the field. Her heavy drab robes dragged against the cobblestones and she saw the stares and gawking mouths as she passed by the merchants at their stalls. The common tongue was spoken here and she could understand more than what she could speak back. Her craban cawed and flapped his wings, setting on her shoulder. Absently, Gwennol stroked the glossy black feathers on his chest, murmuring reassurances to the bird.
She did not remain in Bree long, after a few nights of restless sleep in the alley where many of the refugees she had met were making their homes, Gwennol left the town. She could not feel Rhi Helvarch among the dead stone and the people did not seem to know of Him or the spirits. One or two she spoke with looked at her as if she was mad and one threatened to call the Watchers. Those were the strangely bored looking warriors who seemed ill prepared for war. The people of Bree were indeed fortunate to live up in this northern land without neighbors wishing to raid and steal what they had. Gwennol knew the natives of the town complained about the newcomers but if they could know what a real raid was like, that what they had experienced was merely a taste of what the horrors of war had to offer.
With her staff in hand, the Dunlending woman passed back through the gates and headed north, wandering up the road she had taken all the way from the wilds of Enedwaith. What did the Huntsman want her here for if the land of the boar was made of stone and it's people deaf and blind to Him? The question needed answering but she would not find it here among so many farms and cabins. Gwennol cut through the fields, Cysgod gliding on the soft breezes and she followed him. She passed by crumbling ruins, proof that the area had once been covered in stone slabs and towers.
She crossed through a horse farm, pausing to admire the brown and red coats of the steeds shining in the afternoon sun. Horses were rather uncommon among their folk, the native horses were short and stocky, colored in duns and creams and well suited for the rocky terrain. Those with the taller riding horses had taken them in raids across the Isen into Rohan, the land of the hated Forgoil. Sometimes the horses were slaughtered for meat and other times they were kept as trophies by the warriors who stole them. These Breeland horses seemed somewhere in the middle, neither mountain pony or well bred war steed. The horses ignored her as she passed through the fields and soon crossed over the last fence. There were more signs of boar and bear in the wilderness and she heard the occasional wolf howling.
Gwennol walked for an hour before spotting a ruin that was likely once a home for it had four walls but lacked anything else. Smoke rose from the crumbling masonry, and she slipped into the bushes, watching to see who was making their home there. It did not take long for her to notice the dark figures in the shade of the walls. Orcs. Her breath caught and she made a long detour around those ruins, for she was not a warrior armed to fight those creatures. She wondered if the people of Bree knew what lurked so close to them but it was not her task to warn them.
Eventually, she found herself on the edge of a down and she peered into the distance, noticing the shimmer of water. Beyond was a large lake, surrounded by trees and rolling hills. Her heart felt lighter at the sight of it and she made her way down a path to the shore. After walking along the lake edge, she spotted yet another ruin but this one was unoccupied. Gwennol inspected it but there was only a dark spot where once someone had used a campfire but it looked to be months old. It was here she set up her camp, she needed time to collect and perpare herbs as she had reduced her stock greatly helping the refugees on the road. The woman was unsure if she could find everything but having water and a forest to forage in, not to mention the hills surrounding it was a good place to start. It did not seem as if people came here and likely the plants would be untouched.
Over the next few days, she fished and foraged, prayed to Rhi Helvarch for guidance and to thank him for the bounty. She slipped into herbal induced trances so she might commune with the spirits of this northern land. Dreams came to her, filled with darkness of the long ancient memory of the ruins that dotted the land and the people long forgotten and those that still remained. The spirit of the boar led her along those paths, but never did it reveal why she was lead to the Breelands.
It was a clear morning of blue skies, fresh from the rain the night before, when Gwennol went for a walk along the lake. Cysgod flew ahead, his shadow cast over the ground in perfect mimic of his form. She kept an eye on him when he dove down to investigate a large dark lump that looked to be the corpse of a bear. Likely killed in a fight over breeding or perhaps just of old age. Cysgod pecked at it, hopping around on the head until he let out a loud squawk and flapped his wings indignantly for the dead bear had grunted and sat up. Gwennol stopped in surprise, gaping at what was not an animal but a huge man in fur lined armor and a helm made the intact head of a bear. He was wet and muddy and seemed to be unable to move his arms. Her trained eye spotted the reddish blood streaked on his stomach and she hurried forward.
