A chill wind was rolling over the fields near the Brandywine River as the sun made its descending path towards the western horizon. Fresh wagon tracks were easily visible in the damp soil of the Road, for it had rained that morning, and the sight of them spurred the young woman to a quicker pace. A light trotting began, rather than walking, as she followed the Road westward towards The Shire.
Less than an hour had passed, though the sun had sunk beyond the hills, and a cool, early-autumn darkness was falling, before she found the caravan. She paused at the crest of a small hill, spotting the cluster of wagons and horses as they pulled to the side of the Road and into a little copse of trees. Campfires sprung up in the twilight, and voices shouted merrily for wine and supper.
She walked more slowly now, keeping to the Road, peering at the wagons from beneath her hood. It was difficult to place where the group had come from, for she could see what appeared to be folk of varying cultures. A common sight for such a thing, as these caravans would pick up various peddlers and travelers and other less savory folk along their routes. Anyone willing to pay, willing to offer a skill, willing to entertain others.
The largest of the wagons sat slightly apart from the rest, and the jangling of a heavy coin purse, along with various rings and necklaces, betrayed the identity of the leader as he climbed down. Flanked by a young, ebon-haired lad, who couldn't have been more than eighteen summers, but who had a long, curved dagger on his belt. His personal guard.
The hooded girl slipped into the trees beside the road. Watching and waiting.
