The blonde warrior-girl strides down the cobbled street, scabbarded greatsword balanced over one shoulder, singing in her rough contralto and munching an apple bought from a stall at the gate, all at once.
She mumbles and hums when chewing interferes with singing, bootheels clopping along to the rhythm of her song, something slow but bright in the tongue of the Rohirrim, head turning to survey the changes in Bree since she was here last months ago.
“Ha…” she mutters to herself : “no change at all, Bree probably won’t ever change unless the sea rolls all the way to these hills!” Shrugging she grins and leans into the short rise from Westgate up the Prancing Pony, eager for her meeting there.
Passing through the square, she pauses at the sound of a hammer falling, falling, ringing on an anvil, turns her head, beaming as though a friend has called her name through the crowd. Her face darkens as she sees the smith, a burly ginger-haired man, sweating over his work.
Tall, broad, reddhish haired he is, not lithe and darkly pretty, a newcomer standing where Fille of Gondor worked not long ago. Cyndwin curses and flings the apple core blindly to one side, flushing at the outraged yelp of pain from a nearby hobbit-vendor!
“Oh…my friend you have my apologies…my deepest…” she mumbles passing off some coins but still seething, walking faster, pursued by the sound and the memories, muttering to herself “why did she have to go off and do that, because Rian needs someone else to leave her behind, as though she doesn’t….Silly Mundburg bi…”
Stopping in place she sighs, swallowing down her anger, biting back a fleeting sadness as she stands below the sign , and then pushes the door wide, letting it fall behind her on that hurt, and striding forward into the firelit future where her raven-haired beloved waits.
