You can never truly return home after leaving. No matter how long your time spent there, or the moments you experienced, or the memories you made...time, heartless bastard that it is, alters all: your shape no longer fits the imprint you left behind.
Bree has proven thus far to be the ire and bane of my very existence. I thought Dale could be unfeeling towards those in urgent need, but this place - suspicious and wary of outsiders - is clearly much worse about it. They look upon my clothes and hear my accented words and turn me away. They care not about the story I have to share; the siblings trailing behind me with a look of desperation in their eyes.
I should have supposed that the opportunity was always going to be too good to be true. A caravan of Erebor dwarves and Barding merchants heading westwards seemed like the perfect chance for me to get away from Dale once and for all. I needed a fresh start. The Watchmen of Dale were at their wits’ end with me, and the folk of Lake-town were getting rougher with those they deemed criminal or unsavory.
Ice was clinging to the window panes, creating a myriad of patterns across the surface. A biting wind whistled through the minute cracks in the frames. Joy pinned her shawl about her shoulders and shuddered lightly. She was sat amongst the tomes of the scholars stair, candle light flickering against the winter gloaming light, cascading patterns and shadows across the dusty room. In front of her lay several crisp sheets of text.
“Did you not have friends in the Mark with whom you could confide in such gossip?” Piper asks me over the rim of her mug of cider. We had been talking long at the table in the center of the tavern. (She had caught me outside in the rain, relishing in it, and invited me inside for a drink ere I caught cold).