Bree

A thump on the door and the blacksmith, a brown-haired young man with loose hair down to his shoulders, glances up from his book. Clutching it in his hand, he rises. A cream-coloured dog skitters across the room and barks.

"Erm, who's there?"

His name is called and he frowns.

"How do you-- Who is this?! I'm armed with a bleeding book and I'm no' afraid t'use it!"

Hello, old friend! I haven't written to you for some time, have I? How have you been? Sitting in my saddlebags, gathering dust, I see.

I know it's been far too long, and perhaps you'd like to hear what I've been up to. No, not yet. I have more pressing concerns. But you know how I can be; how I tend to ramble, covering ideas from here, there, and everywhere in between. Maybe you'll catch snatches as I go.

The night had spread over Bree and the town went silent, it was only the guards that moved about with their lanterns and the lamps here and there spread light on the streets. The windows of the houses were bright and the fireplaces were burning as the townsfolk were trying to stay warm during these last cold days oft he passing winter. As always the Prancing Pony was full people and it was the only place in town that was louder than the nocturnal insects and the occasional owl in the forest.