There's a winding alley in the depths of Bree, through Beggar's Alley, past a few homes in shambles. You turn a corner into a dark and damp street, the cobblestone always slick, even in the heat of summer. No one lives down there and no one is even sure why it hasn't been closed off and bricked up, save for the tiny shop at the end of the tiny road, with tall windowless buildings so close on either side that it nearly chokes you.
Blink and you'd miss the dark door that has one single flickering flame in a lantern hanging by the door. Upon stepping inside, you'd find nothing except for a small room with an almost empty counter sitting in front of a wall full of bare shelves that probably once contained a multitude of jars and vials and herbs.
And yet, the alley sees more hooded figures traipsing through than it should, cloaks pulled together ever so tightly over their bodies. They knock once and enter, leaving their folded letters or envelopes in the tin box sitting at the end of the old counter. They return the next day, or the day after that, only carrying away small jars or vials that have no distinguishable features aside from the very tiny etching of a bumblebee.
