The woman sat on the bed of a nondescript, unremarkable room in the ages-old inn of Bree. The light at the window was weak. Grey, flat winter skies shone a thin bit of chilled, silvery illumination through the smudged pane. Her head was slightly bent, and her hair was loose about her shoulders, like a flowing river of spun gold.
In her hands was a wood carving. She had kept it carefully wrapped over the years. Its surface and edges were still whole and intact. No chips, no scratches.
A voice echoed in her mind. Deep, like the rumbling of stone beneath the earth. Tinged with something akin to mirth, but not quite.
"Tell me, with the fabled honesty of the horse-folk, thought you ever of my own...?"
Her lips twitched slightly. There was no hint of a smile. Her smooth, porcelain brow was gently puckered in somber thought.
Across the room, a beautiful shawl, made from the hide of a young deer, was draped over the back of a chair. Her eyes were drawn to it. The frown deepened.
A final bow of her gaze brought the carving back into view briefly. She held it near to her heart, pressing the hard, sharp edges into her soft flesh, and then placed it back in its leather pouch, out of sight. Then she stood and made her way to the door, and exited through it.
