Bree

It was late afternoon in the valley when Kennet advanced along the paths of Rivendell, flanked by colorful trees. The smell of dampness was palpable even though it had not rained all day, and a feeling of being in a paradisiacal wild forest flooded him, despite the fact that he was walking through the interior of the elven enclave.

Kennet had to ask again to understand what elf Canaddal was telling him. In his serene and distant voice, the elf repeated his words again:

There’d been word of the Order organization again. A similar name -- of the night this time, rather than of seven stars -- but similar enough to the previous cult to make Enniliel nervous. Saeradan was concerned too, but insisted on investigating himself this time.

OOC note: this is a rewrite of a previously written story to more accurately represent events from the RP that happened

“Investigate, lass. Earn their trust and figure out what’s going on. I cannot tell if they’re an aid or wolves masquerading as sheep.”

The smell of stew, burnt wood and tobacco smoke permeated the atmosphere, but without being overwhelming. The main room of The Prancing Pony was large enough that the twenty or so people who were there were not crammed together. There was nothing to set this night apart from any other night: no suspicious group of travelers, no performances by musicians present beyond the quiet tunes of local bard Owen, no fights or affronts that would force Barliman to intervene...

The sound of hammer against anvil in the forge and axes against wood on the various work tables could be heard at an uneven pace at all times inside Three-farrow Crafting Hall. But the study area was at a lower level and separate from the rougher work area, and by some marvel of architecture the high ceilings of the hall seemed to attract the noises.

It is difficult to imagine two places less alike than Forochel and Bree-land. The cold, sparsely-populated northern lands have a beauty about them, it is true, but with the greatest of respect to the Lossoth, it was with relief that I began the long journey back to Bree. 

Bree, half a lifetime ago

The day her mother died it was sunny. Only eleven years old, she didn’t stop crying for weeks. If the skies were dry, her tears would replace the mourning of rain.