Bree has proven thus far to be the ire and bane of my very existence. I thought Dale could be unfeeling towards those in urgent need, but this place - suspicious and wary of outsiders - is clearly much worse about it. They look upon my clothes and hear my accented words and turn me away. They care not about the story I have to share; the siblings trailing behind me with a look of desperation in their eyes.
I should have supposed that the opportunity was always going to be too good to be true. A caravan of Erebor dwarves and Barding merchants heading westwards seemed like the perfect chance for me to get away from Dale once and for all. I needed a fresh start. The Watchmen of Dale were at their wits’ end with me, and the folk of Lake-town were getting rougher with those they deemed criminal or unsavory.
It was in the limited light of foredawn I approached our point of assembly; a place we had convened on many a morning at exactly the same time. As I suspected, our youngest and most flamboyant comrade was already there, waiting upon his favoured perch. As I entered the stone enclosure, he looked up from his journal and lifted a hand to tip his elegant, feathered hat in his usual greeting.