Night fell on Bree as swift as it always did, the stars broke their slumber and the moon came to watch over the dark. Still, The Prancing Pony was filled with voices and cheer, from outside it would seem the hum of mirth would never stop.
Folke sat in a dingy room, cheaply rented for when he had work in the town, a note lay in front of him, weighted down with a heavy set of keys. Next to them, his sharpening stone sat, nailed in place, he pushed his knife smoothly across its surface, back and forth, back and forth. Light from the small fire nearby cast a near ominous shadow across his scarred face, large, and battle beaten, he seemed fearsome in his thoughts.
Mungan in jail, and Folke taking up the work of a landlord? What was the world coming to? At least it was work, but he craved the hills and the woods. Sitting atop waterfalls, beneath trees and the smell of roasting squirrel, rabbit and boar, Folke grinned. Then there was Rosie and Primrose, fair, and with a fiery temper. Had he done wrong in coming to Bree? It had a terrible reputation for keeping you there. Not since his late family had he felt so bound to a piece of land. He shed a tear in their memory and gazed into the fire. “When all is done, to the hills I go.” He muttered to himself. Rhyson and Uniss were most likely far into their dreams by now, how that man could take a child into his care so willingly, Folke did not know, but he was glad of it, they just seemed to fit.
Folke turned back to his knife and wiped it down, stropping it on a slip of leather. Waterfalls, and shared honey made him smile, and the bet he had won. Though he worried that his wandering might stoke that fiery temper, he was glad he had taken a bet with Rosie, and that he had won. He leaned down, and took up what most would see as a club. His eyes gazed over the carvings along it, bears and wolves dwelled mostly at one end, surrounded by spears and woodsmen hidden in knot work, then a long road swept through it all, it passed by mountains and rivers, elves, and a curious piece, a man being hugged by a bear. Though he carved newly in to it, a clump of rye grass, sat along side a sprig of yarrow, and beside them, he whittled a honey comb sat between a rose and primrose. He stood and paced to a bed opposite from a sleeping horse-lord, he laughed as he gazed upon Jorven, laying down in his own bed, he pulled his old cloak over himself, tucked an arm beneath his head, and fell to sleep.
