Bree

The sun had lowered itself beyond that of the western hills of Bree, the sky now blanketed in a deep iridescent red, clear of all clouds. The inside of the Pony was quiet for dusk, a brief flurry of patrons had been and gone and passed to more private quarters. A gentle song resonated about the walls of the near empty inn, clear and light in melody. Upon closer inspection the source of such a voice flowed out from behind the worn wooden counter and tankards. A woman raised herself from behind it, placing a cloth against the ale spattered counter and lightly resting one arm against it.

It was an early dawn, and the weakened sun sifted through the dusty panes of the Pony. A few patrons meandered here and there, no doubt expecting breakfast, but none too many that Barliman couldn’t handle. A swift trek it would be, through to the cemetery not far north of the town, to see to the grave of her father.

Rhoana awoke to a peaceful dawn. The sound of a gentle breeze hummed its way through the blades of grass and a blanket of blue sky and clouds passed over-head. She found herself amongst brush and stone and a sudden, swift reminder of her predicament came to the fore through throbbing pain. She took to her feet, the passing of hours unknown as she hurriedly made her way across the fields.