High noon, the sun shone down as if it were trying to burn through the very fabric of the tinker-man's hat, very hot indeed. The Greenway's ghosts parted as the travellers paced on, heir brightly hue clothes vastly out of place in this grassy landscape, nothing but trees, and grass. Except, just on the brow of the hill, there peeked the brown stain of Bree, sitting as a crown atop the hill. The north of the hedgewall was coming in to view, an Birchald couldn't decide whether he was happy or not to see it.
A black bird seemed to cawed a profanity at him, he assumed it was a crow, and thought nothing more of it, they always were the rude ones. He and Briannon were tired by the road and the sun cast down its beams until they reached the meagre and short enjoyed shadow of the north gate. On past the small hamlet of farms within Bree's protective, yet large plant life they went, the occasional “hullo!” being given by the resident hobbits, each either leaning on a fence, a rake or a hoe. “G'day! Nice to see you're hard at work!” Birchald would mumble, with only Briannon in earshot, then he would cup his hands to his mouth and holler in turn “lovely day! Hard at it I see!” He'd look back to Briannon, tipping his hat and grinning as she laughs.
The Stone Quarter gave its usual welcome, vendors gave their best attempt at selling stale bread, mouse nibbled pies and swill well past its best. As usual, the mummers shrugged off the apparent bargains an made straight for home, their straw bed, their small fire and creaking floorboards, Birchald looked to Briannon as he unlocked his door. It was good to be home.
