Bree

The wind had picked up, warm gentle gusts making their way down Bree’s dusty streets. The rustle and clapping of washing strung from window to window created its own rhythm above her head. Joy leant against the stone wall surrounding the market square, Hjotr nestled against her chest, bound by cloth. That rustling of linen above lulled her into distant memories as she awaited Kip, the grocer, with the parceling up of her goods.

The letter is enclosed in an envelope hastily folded, and slightly bent from where the bearer had tucked it away before its delivery to its recipient. The seal, however, a wax seal of gold color with the inlay of a swan. It was precisely pressed on, careful deliberate application taken in how it was applied to the envelope. The recipient's name was scrawled on the back with a flourished but hurried motion of handwriting.

~~The Ambitious Corsair~~

Chapter VI

Work was harder to find in Bree than she had originally thought. In hindsight, she should have known. The people of Archet still didn’t fully trust her family even after living there for sixteen years, so why should the town of Bree offer work to a shifty vagabond whom they know nothing about? 

A line of wagons extends a quarter-mile out from the eastern gate of Bree-town. At the front of the line a gate-watcher handles each of the merchants, collecting their bills of inventory and checking their trading permits. 'You're all set, sir. Now move along', he says, lackadaisically ushering the next wagon inside.

The sunlight was warm in the field, but a cool wind often danced by. Elane sat beneath the shade of a tree, the dappled light from the canopy above bespeckling her as the leaves rustled in the wind. Resting her head back against the trunk of the tree, her eyes gazed out over the rolling grassland. The peaceful ambience was lovely, a welcome change from the bustle and noise of Bree. Elane adjusted her shawl, her feet pressed into the earth, cool from the shade. It was times like this where she would become lost in her thoughts, running off with her imagination.

"Tis' a sure thing", Oates had assured me. "Mayor Graeme is crazy about cheese!"