Bree

Dear Mr Gembeard,

I have tried to deliver you this message in person, but I did not know your residence. And either way, I learned that you were out of town. I hope that, when postman Bridgewood delivers you this message and you are reading this, you have arrived safely and without too much trouble here in Bree.

Khahaynd remained in Calla’s house, in Bree, for two days. She knew she was nearing her goal, and that time was important. She also knew information was important. She would take all she could find to her Mistress. 

He said his name was Balkumagan. “It is easy to see we are from a similar place, lady. I am Balkumagan, First Mate of the Shakalgimil, though alas, rather further from her and the Sea than I like.” He bowed elegantly, as one who knew well his manners.

Little ornamental fish in a pond, indeed.

It had been a long time since Es had been cut off from everyone he knew. His house, his family, colleagues, employees, allies, acquaintances.

The stowaway, at first distrusted, was now gaining some rapport with him. Now he knew more about her.

He intended it to be a destructive visit to the blackjack tables. Burn the coin, watch it go up in flames like everything else had done. 

Instead, it turned into a win.

Just like that, they gained three horses. Decent ones.

Nenaura had conned some passing merchants, during his delay. He wanted to know how she'd done it, but refused to give her the satisfaction of asking.

They had coin, now. The stowaway wanted comfort, and he was obliged by custom to provide it. 

So, here I am. In a town I do not know, far away from Edoras, from the woods, from the fact that I use to listen at the crickets during night, from picking up flowers and herbs. What I will find here? People.  To meet people or interact with them, is not what I enjoy most, but still I do it and I did that when I arrived to Bree.

Naraal had led Captain Greenfield to the side-street tavern with the fewest cockroaches. He knew the Prancing Pony would probably be better accommodation, but there was also the matter of discretion. 

Not that Greenfield seemed in any way discreet.

The hamlet of Hamglen, nestled near Bree, wakes to a chilly morning as the first light of the sun pierces through the mist that blankets the small homesteads. The thatched roofs of the cottages glisten with a thin layer of frost, and the air carries a crisp bite that hints at the arrival of colder days. The chimneys release tendrils of smoke that rise lazily into the cool atmosphere, and the village folk, wrapped in warm woolen cloaks, move with purpose through the cobbled streets. The autumn leaves crunch underfoot, releasing a fragrant earthy aroma.