Herne

There was a familiar sensation, as if he was standing in a storm with forked lightning overhead. Not painful, just strange. He sniffed the air and smelt wet dog. It was him who stunk. Before him stood Khahaynd, only she looked exactly like the She-Elf, her features and outfit identical in every detail. The sorceress smiled seductively and batted her eyelashes. 

Herne was an old town in a very Mannish style: a few wooden outbuildings next to run-down houses with stacked stone walls and adjoining fields, all surrounded by an abundance of oaks and larches. We approached it at a steady pace. It was late morning, Anor was bright, but the air was chill. It was a good excuse to be wrapped in our cloaks, though our bearing and stature and the noble blood of our horses possibly caused some to regard us twice.

Es was a man of efficiency. Excellence was an art, and self-inflated bluster was its opposite.

Reason and logic were the flavours of grounding and sanity. However, he did allow room for what was an important phenomenon in his life:

Es did not believe in coincidences.

Bree was quaint. A little too quaint for what Es and Nen were used to, despite whatever impressions they gave the locals.

They rode south of Bree, into Herne. There, lodgings were secured. A house; more spacious and furnished more finely than the Breeish cottages they'd looked into. For now the stowaway could rest easy with her creature comforts. Security, privacy, a bath. Simplicity was needed while Esgaulegor regathered himself.