The fifteenth turn of the moon climbs high above the Bree hill tonight, casting stark lines of light & shadow across the cobblestones,& I find myself standing at a bitter crossroads.
The stranger's smile lingered in the cold night air long after he dissolved back into the mist of the alley. I clutched the stolen merchant's purse tighter in my pocket, the silver coins inside feeling suddenly heavy, not with wealth, but with chains. For days, his encounter has gnawed at me more than the empty ache in my leg ever could. He offered purpose to a man who had lost his way, but it was a purpose forged in pitch. Yet, as I looked at the stolen lute leaning against the damp brick of my hideout, I realized the bitter truth..... the petty pickpocket routine is losing its edge, & the danger is no longer a deterrent, but the only thing making me feel alive.
I know the choices before me, though neither offers peace. If I seek out that tall, lean man, Bree's alleyways will become my empire rather than my hiding place. There are heavier doors to pick, guarded storehouses, & folk that pay well for a Shadowfoot who can slip where others cannot, turning my petty desperation into calculated power. But if I turn my back on him, I must leave Bree behind entirely. That means facing the open road with a bad leg, an empty belly, & no stolen coin to cushion the fall; it means returning to honest labor, or starving trying.
My fingers twitch toward my pocket, brushing against the smooth leather of the purse. Will I take the leap into the less fortunate living, or will I choose the agonizing, difficult climb back toward the light?
