Bree

The young woman crouched, her forearms resting on her thighs, her murky blue eyes taking in the gruesome scene. A dagger dangled from one hand, still wet with blood as she had the kindness in her stone heart to finish off one man who was dying too slowly. He had been impaled on a broken tree limb, in a rather vulnerable if not fatal place on his body. She spat at the roots of the old oak and turned at the sound of foot steps. 

Diary,

Bree. Such an insignificant little place, yet the pomposity within these hedge walls is quite overwhelming in its frequency. Every man, dwarf and halfling seems to be for himself, barely stretching their horizons beyond the nearest tavern. It was quite a shock returning from so long alone in my own thoughts and company to civilisation that stands in such stark contrast to that from which I have come. Melliea would oft tell me tales of Gondor her homeland, painting a vivid picture with words and eventually letters.

                  Since she was born and leaned to walk, she always went over the edge, edge of room, yard or town. Bold and unwise just as her father, always seeking, always wishing for a breath of fresh air while riding on open road or paths. She crossed many lines, borders of decent behavior, decent life among others. While other girls were learning how to cook or sew, she was in mud and blood to her knees traveling with fathers company.