Bree

How long had she wandered?

The fog never ceased, and the night was never ending. Carefully placing her walking stick before of her every step, she meandered the endless, rolling hills and barrow mounds. Only the occasional stone peer broke the scenery of fog, grass, and rolling mounds. She was hastily losing track of the time as she walked on and on.

Scholar’s Walk Hostel, Bree

33 Tuilë in the Reckoning of Imladris

Bromley woke up and looked at the door of the cage. One of his his cell mates was being dragged out of it violently and when he tried to hold onto the bars the hooded man in charge of the orcs slashed against his wrist making him let go. He looked at Bromley and licked the blood from the blade before sheathing it again and smirked.

Eira walked up to the woman at the counter with a box. Eira was trying to convince herself she was just trying something new. There were no further motives than using her freedom to try many different styles of clothes. Yes, her personal enjoyment. That was why she was buying this dress. This very nice dress. And the soap Ris gave her? She was washing up tonight because why not? After helping Egfor in the orchards all day, she could go for a bath! No other motivations or desires at all played into this...

The dark man slipped through the trees of the forest, looking around the empty landscape. Soon, Sharkey would have control of this place. Bree land. A servant of Mordor, as opposed to Isengard however, this man had a different mission than securing Sharkey's miniscule throne.

The broom kicked up dust as the hapless girl swept the stairs leading to the second floor of the Huntsman and Stag. Hair in her face, she continued to work as her grim thoughts tormented her.

"Aglarari, you will save us all."

Southeast Breeland, over a decade ago

Tears stained the page of a worn journal, though its crinkled pages held little in the way of writing. The tall young woman that sat hunched over it could have seemed totally oblivious to the world around her but for the occasional keen glances around at fairly regular intervals.

This letter is written in neat handwriting, even though the rows are never evenly distributed along the piece of paper. There is an ink stain between the second and third paragraphs. It seems to be the seventh in a series of letters.

What an evening he muttered to himself, aloud, though he was smiling broadly.

“Damn, girl, you killed my King!” he laughed, and Bexly smiled back at him broadly.