The sun sets for yet another rainy day in Bree-land. Relentless rain floods the cracked cobbles of Bree, a smooth symphony of pitter-patter and a gentle splashing on the soft town soil. The shopkeepers hurriedly gather their wares in their carts after a long day of practicing the sacred art of negotiation and haggling, even if it were cut short by the wrath of the elements. The farmers wipe the sweat from above their brow, marveling at a good's day work in the several fields and praising the heavens for such a strong and vicious rain; for indeed, just as rain can make the most mundane of objects look awe-inspiringly stunning, so too can it rouse the land to provide a bountiful harvest. From inside and beyond the Hedge, merry folk from all works of life flock to the Prancing Pony on a pilgrimage seeking respite, companionship an ideal shelter from the elements. Outside the Inn, the rain pours down in sheets, but the tavern is a warm and welcoming refuge from the storm.
People come and go, laughing and drinking, sharing stories, and making new friends. It's a place where all are welcome, where worries are forgotten, and where the simple pleasures of life are celebrated in the company of good friends and good cheer. In a corner, a minstrel strums his lute and sings a rousing ballad of a Prince of Rhudaur who - as legend has it - fell in love with a barmaid from Bree. Whether these stories had any drop of truth in them, however, was left to the decision of the crowd they entertained. The patrons join the minstrel in the chorus, their voices ringing in harmony with the minstrel's lilting melody.
The music, the drinking, the deafening sound of laughing, boasting, and sharing tall tales and news from all over the lay of the land painted a rather appealing charming scene of a community united around sharing only the most scandalous of tales and gossip. Men and women carried constantly came and went through tight corridors between the other patrons with their pints, off to look for a table in the packed, almost overcrowded Inn. One such table boasted the finest minds Bree had seen for a considerably long time-.. Bob Rosswood, a beetroot farmer from a prominent line of growers that would put all the other peasantry to shame. Bob, an avid extrovert (and occasional alcoholic) in his thirties was hungrily and rather loudly munching on some freshly baked mutton, a Barliman Butterbur specialty. By his side stood an ever-growing taller stack of tankards, platters, and plates flanked by two other men on either side, a chunky, rotund balding older gentleman in the form of one certain Edgar Triston. Triston, a cook renowned for being the first and only man to give four adult healthy men a bad stomach from a single tray, hooked his gaze over the last fellow in this merry distinguished trio; Scottie Marwood - also known as the 'best fisherman west of the Brandywine to catch two fish with one bait', according to him anyway, but that wasn't saying much considering the best fisherman west of the Brandywine drowned in port the winter before. The fisherman had his attention exclusively devoted to a mysterious piece of yellowed parchment.
"Ey, listen up fellas, it's all in the seasoning, ya know? Toss them mashed potatoes up with the pork loin, but don't go ruining it over the fire, you get it? Gotta give it some crunchiness, ya feel me? And don't forget to feel that skin. Feelin' that skin's the key to--.. " Edgar pauses, looking over Rosswood with a rather stern and serious expression, the farmer only managing a meek disinterested nod. The cook turns his ire to the trawler, giving him a rather rough back-handed smack on the shoulder that causes the fisherman to jump and curse under his breath.
"Ey, numbnuts, what in th'heavens are you's reading?" he aggressively queries, brows furrowed in an almost deathly stare, his beloved pork loin method being given the cold shoulder in favour of a raggedy piece of paper. "For heaven's sake-.. every time you's gotta do this when we go out, snap it out of your head!"
"Listen up, mate, it's not my fault you live under one of them cook pots of yours, yeah?.. I'm a responsible citizen of this town, yeah? That means I need to keep myself in the mill with what's happening 'round here! Look-.." he says, pushing the paper in to his hands. The cook temporarily puts his grievances aside, even if a scowl is directed Scottie's way. Never the less he stoops his gaze low to try and make out the lines scribbled upon it, but alas, it is naught but gibberish to a man that had never penned or read a thing in his life.
"-- I got my Anneka to read it to me, yeah? Apparently, some poor sod of a farmhand let some of Eogar's expensive horses run off with 'em bandit lot from the woods. He's devastated he is! Ain' got a clue where their lot went with the horses either by the sounds of it! Them notes been appearin' all over town the last few days! Offerin' a reward, he says, for anyone that can get 'em back in one piece.". Bob quips with a small 'mhhh', still munching on mutton. "Heard 'bout tha'." the farmer adds in a low murmur, still more devoted to finishing his meal than entertaining the news.
"Well, eytha way..." Edgar pauses, regarding the table in its entirety with gaze switching between his two companions. "... he's had it comin' thatguy. Heard he made some dealin's wit' tha' undesirables ovah in tha' woods. Probably didn't have enough money to pay 'em back and they came back for what was due. Stole his horses, gave his farmhand a beatin', and ran off. Do you blame 'em? Make deal with ruffians, that's what you get!"
"Don't matter now.. ah' couldn' care less 'bout goin' off chasin' horses tha' ah' may never find.. Hengstacer and his lot can deal with it for all ah' care about." Rosswood adds, perhaps in faint agreement with his friend.. despite this, the fisherman's eye sparkle with a twinkle of adventure and he beams a grin, "You know what lads -- what've we got to lose, let's go for it!". His enthusiasm, however, is met only with a slap to the back of the head and a roaring chorus of laughter. "You's drunk again.."
And so Edgar tosses the note carelessly over his shoulder. Indeed, these notes had suddenly sprouted all across the streets and pillars of Bree in a rather bizarrely quick pace. It drifts slowly into the air and lands gracefully by the foot of a chair.. a hand clad in a distinct glove belonging to a graying man picks it up silently, blue eyes scanning the lines carefully.
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This is a lead that can be followed in-game. If your character happens to stumble upon these notes all across Bree-Town and wants to investigate, shoot me a DM in the form of a tell or a letter in-game (name of the character is Taurrandir), or simply message me on this platform. I'll provide you with the details and we'll arrange a time.
