Kitowyn

The grey cloud of pipe-weed smoke dissipated quickly in the light breeze gently blowing under the brilliant noonday sun. After a few puffs, the traveler grinded his smoke out against the worn wooden slats of the cart that they finally climbed into and slept in last night, and flicked away the tip as he turned to look down at the sleeping girl who laid against his boney side.

He exhaled the smoke in a long, thin line while idly observing the slow burn of the rolled pipe-weed between his fingertips. Kitten sat a pace away in front of the campfire she built for them, borrowed book lying across her lap, her small inquisitive face turned towards him.

"You seemed like you were having a nightmare. Or at least, an odd dream," she spoke.

Author's Note: This post deviates from my usual method of writing in third-person to narrate in-game roleplay sessions. Due to summer holidays, work travels and so on, the players of Jindir and Kitowyn casually messaged as time permitted.

Kitten slept long that morning, and from the position of the sun the traveler surmised it was nearing high noon. He cradled a handful of eggs he had pilfered from the nearby farm's chicken coop in his lap for some time before he was finally tempted to eat one himself.

Close to midnight it was when the traveler ambled his way to the camp Kitten made beneath an old, wide oak tree outside Tuckborough. Fully cloaked, his heavy hood fallen over his dusky face, he was invisible on his approach to the meager campfire she built; suddenly he appeared out of the gloom in one step within the gentle golden ring of fire-light. She flashed him a quick smile, but then the expression faded and her demeanor was disheartened.

Penned in precise and evenly lined sentences, a blank page near the middle of a slightly scuffed, top-grain leather journal is newly inscribed. If one were to flip past the filled pages to the very beginning, one would find the first page titled with: Bernie Tweed, Bree-land followed by a series of odd symbols.

They woke with the rise of the sun to a clear and warm morning, the remains of their campfire now blackened ash. Kitten believed that they stood a better chance of finding a helpful hobbit to borrow from the library on their behalf if they separated, and so the traveler gathered up his rucksack and set off in the opposite direction of the one she chose for herself.

Penned in precise and evenly lined sentences, a blank page near the middle of a slightly scuffed, top-grain leather journal is newly inscribed. If one were to flip past the filled pages to the very beginning, one would find the first page titled with: Bernie Tweed, Bree-land followed by a series of odd symbols.

They stood and gathered up their belongings after the rain had abated enough to make travel possible again. Flicking away the tip of his finished smoke, the traveler asked Kitten where their next destination was. His tone was one of genuine nonchalance; as long as the road was open and free, he would wander wherever it carried him.

Penned in precise and evenly lined sentences, a blank page near the middle of a slightly scuffed, top-grain leather journal is newly inscribed. If one were to flip past the filled pages to the very beginning, one would find the first page titled with: Bernie Tweed, Bree-land followed by a series of odd symbols.

29 Chithing

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