She wasn't often one to get lost. She thought by now, having been in Bree for a few weeks, she would know her way around the twists and turns of the city. Bree isn't like Archet. Archet was contained, fenced in, claustrophobic. She had memorized every track and path, and you could see foliage blooming between buildings and stables.
Bree was different. It was contained, and towering buildings blocked the light of the sun, and from the sight of those inside was hidden the world awaiting beyond the gates. Hidden also was the danger along the Great East Road, but why should that matter? Should the people here not know how to defend themselves?
She knew that many didn't. The West was, in truth, safer than whatever lies east of the East Road. What did Bree have to fear other than the occasional ruffian or brigand? The more commonly seen drunkards? All did not need to bear a sword.
She thought of Fenley Plumwood as she took another wrong turn down an alleyway. An exquisite craftsman of furniture, but who knew how to do little more than strike a hammer to a nail in terms of defending himself. How he had taken upon carrying a sword he did not know how to use, and how he was carving a wooden training weapon to teach himself to fight. She had offered him the sketches she had once taken of the men of the Watch, but they were stagnant, and she did not know how well he would fare learning from them. She had promised to spar with him once, but that was a fortnight ago, and she had gotten busy doing the painting for her niece's room. He would understand if he knew, but I haven't even had a chance to speak with him. Surely he thinks me rude.
She then thought also of Mister Arthur Hazelwood; though of wealth, he came across boorish to her at first. After a long discussion with him about his behavior, however, he was quite amicable in how he presented himself; there was just bad blood between him and the Plumwoods, and no way for her to have known that when she joined them at the table that night. The conversation turned to the sword, as it surely would have with a man as versed in fencing as he. But while Fenley had broached the topic of sword-fighting with earnest and a desire to learn, when she and Arthur spoke of it, it was far different. He had looked up at her from beneath the brim of his hat, and spoke;
“Do not be so eager to draw swords. Have you ever had to end the life of a man?”
“No.”
“And I hope you shall never have to.”
There was such a solemnity to his eyes and his words, a depth, that she changed the subject right then. I do wonder where Mister Hazelwood is as of late. He gave me no address to seek him, but we must discuss the details of his portrait.
She thought then of her brother, Ogden, and the dark expression that crossed his face as she requested to take up his sword that he had crafted during his apprenticeship, as he was not using it anymore. Ogden had given it to her, but with a warning that he did not want to hear that his little sister was felled in a duel outside the Prancing Pony.
It is not as if I am reckless. I am not hot-headed. Willful? Spirited? Yes, but not fool-hardy. I deserve a little more faith than that.
That did not change the odd looks she got from the people of Bree, as she stumbled her way, lost, through the town; odd looks at the hamlet painter with her head in the clouds, and a sword hanging from the belt of her dress.
