Bree

The afternoon sun was just past its pinnacle in the sky and on its way descending towards the horizon when it paused to shed light on the hard-working town of Trestlebridge. It brought forth sweat from the necks of carpenters sawing down lumber, glinted against the swords of guards practicing combat, and illuminated the anxious faces of mothers trying to feed their children with little in their larders.

[Note: The following is a handwritten note left in the Arnorian ruins overlooking the Prancing Pony courtyard, set upon a Gondorian greatsword driven into the earth near the stone circle.]

To my friends in the North,

The dapple-grey horse seemed to be enjoying the attentive brushing of the fair-haired young woman. He had been restless in a foreign stable surrounded by foreign stable hands until the return of normalcy: Ellany smoothing his coat down with a coarse brush after a hard day’s ride.

Miss Charlotte could hear the rhythmic chopping of a knife coming from the kitchen beyond the main hall as she entered through the front door and set her cloak on the peg beside the door. The steady sound was at odds with the sporadic hammering inside her chest, since she had bustled up the hill to the Litwell home faster than she was used to walking. She wasted no time in crossing the entrance hall and proceeded in towards the kitchen.

At evening often it happens yet,

When the rest of our night is free,

That a veteran old from the war is met,

And we chat about Ynel of Bree.

Though sullen the man may have been before,

More kindly his face now grows,

And his gray moustache doth a curl come o'er,

And smile on his visage grows.

He thinks how oft from the battle-plain,

or from long-day's travel incur

And wearied, came he a pint to drain,

in the Prancing Pony with her.

Disclaimer:  This does not have anything to do with the Town Watch kinships or their members.  The guards or so called watchers Richard may have under his command are in no way endorsed or even included in the regular ranks of the Watch kinships.

"He did what!?!"  Richard burst out as he slammed his fist on the table.

It was late afternoon in the hunting lodge of Bree and men were gathering for their evening meals and drinks, company, news and tales to share between them.
"The fish have come early" One of the older men of the lodge commented as he laid back in his chair, a wooden pipe hung by the corner of his dry lips and a thin line of smoke rising up from the rounded, cracked bell. 
"Aye" Another one in his company replied with a slow nod "The nets should be mended so we can make our way north and set it out."

This page is written in clean-cut, simple script, in a plain leather-bound journal with the words "Sefton Heathridge" written in precise letters on the inside cover.