''Bree-town''

Isulril stood in her near-empty home, staring into the fire in the grate. The furniture had been covered in white sheets, and dusty. But there was not much of it. The home had not been used in some time, when she had arrived several months ago.

She thought about Handrynhad, who had spent part of his life in Bree-land, though much of it in Gondor. He was a minor noble, who had his hand in trade more than politics. He bred hounds, and made much gold off the selling of them.

A line of wagons extends a quarter-mile out from the eastern gate of Bree-town. At the front of the line a gate-watcher handles each of the merchants, collecting their bills of inventory and checking their trading permits. 'You're all set, sir. Now move along', he says, lackadaisically ushering the next wagon inside.

(( Written using emotes from in-game))

It was by no means late yet but Bree-town and its streets were quiet, a more and more common occurance during the winter months. The yellow light of candles and lanterns burned in the windows as most of the town's inhabitants cloistered themselves in their warm homes or the inn. The only foot traffic to be seen was coming from the North Gate and moving along the road leading to the Prancing Pony as weary travelers and frost-bitten tradesmen hurried towards the promise of warm fires and warming drinks.

Furley looked over the horizon as the sun went down. He had slowly begun to calm down, now, his heart rate returning back to normal, but he still felt his rage swell and burn inside of him. Forcing himself to exhale, he felt his head throb a little, and put a sweaty, grimy hand to his forehead. In his hand, a small metallic object was being passed idly between his fingers, as he turned it over like the windmills in his mind. 

It had been a quick ride, Furley's horse, Calista, responding to his need for urgency, and he had almost clattered into the commotion on the road north, before stopping and doubling back, finally skirting round the tree-line, out of sight from the group. 

Furley had his armour on, including his helmet strapped tight, and an expression mixed between a growl and sheer panic. Still, he kept his composure, as he held the horse's reins, ready to jump into the saddle, and had his sword loosened in its sheath. 

His heart was pounding, and his palms were sweaty. The hall was filled with people awaiting the trial of Deorla. A mix of people from honest townsfolk, to the merchants that held grievance with the defendant, to the strange, hooded figures that he could only assume were the rangers. The atmosphere was electric, and Furley did not feel at ease whatsoever. 

((Disclaimer: There is no connection between the guards used in this story and the watch proper.  The events seen here are not connected to any of the established watch kins.  The only reason I use Guards 1,2,3 etc. is for naming purposes and nothing else))

In the early morning, a sleepy town's citizens faced the dawn of another day.  Richard was no exception, as he woke up to have his breakfast and the routine of putting his armor on.  Out the door he went, and to the jail house he'd go.  

(The letter is written in haste)