Ferngrove

Ice was clinging to the window panes, creating a myriad of patterns across the surface. A biting wind whistled through the minute cracks in the frames. Joy pinned her shawl about her shoulders and shuddered lightly. She was sat amongst the tomes of the scholars stair, candle light flickering against the winter gloaming light, cascading patterns and shadows across the dusty room. In front of her lay several crisp sheets of text.

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.

The Ferngrove’s, a somewhat elusive family, one which is little known to Joy. Her mother spoke little of her brother; in fact the mere mention of such would bring her to quieten. For what reason Joy does not know, though she has begun an active search for such family members who bear the name.