Many journals or novels seem to start with a tale from there childhood, this however shall not, i have written on that before and find it of ill import. I would agree that it counts towards my foundations, that it contributes towards the beast i have become. It was what pointed me here today, that through some destiny provide me with the armour i bear now, that compelled me to shadows and the alternative tactics of defeating prey without sword, in those years i learnt to survive, gather food and shelter where other men would see non. But still, the importance between a boy in boar hide and the decades older man of rich black armour is absent.
What i would find relevant, is the young man, never to have taken part in society, never to have spoken with another other than to be told who to kill, arriving at the gates of Bree wearing golden armour, with inspiration to be of a good nature, to find coin to line his pockets.
I rode on horseback to tour Bree, learning all i could, it was not my first visit, not at all, i was born within these city walls and have been back here upon many requirements before. This was however the first time I had intended to remain. The Prancing Pony was always the first place you would go, for i did not understand the reasoning but all manner of men, Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits alike would cram in to it walls and discuss there business and plots, it was their understanding, i can only imagine, they believe nobody took notice, but a building of wood has many knot holes in which you could listen into another room. It was here i listen to the story of a group of bandits who plagued the area, who conspired against well know travellers, a tale of interest to me for the easiest and most wealthy commodity is information, i was to be no common finch but could use this to gain a footing into somebody's house. I did exactly that.
Back then, The Prancing pony Inn was the singular greatest point of interest if you wished to find anyone of anything, someone would have answer or direct, or as I preferred, a slip of the tongue. I found myself having to mimic man, a pipe-weed peddler moved around the room so concerned for his trade, he lacked the knowledge of my hand reaching into his pocket and removing some of his coin. This place became a regular haunt for me, when I could, I found homage behind a pair of large barrels, back during those days though, I was often moved on by Jack, a strong fellow with a violent reputation, and enough people around him of similar style to myself for me to know meddle without true cause, this man died years later and I claimed the spot for my own after.
