The hour was late and the night ominously long. The Constable sat in the jail, boots propped up on his desk and smoldering pipe crooked between his lips. Who knew a piece of damnable fabric could be so foreboding.
Beri puffed on his pipe, dragging his hands tiredly down his face. He lowered his feet to the ground and leaned forward, running his hand over the rough wool cloak and the crude white hand painted on to it. This wasn't good. Quite the opposite of good, in fact. He only told a select few he was working with, not even Essebrin knew. Last thing Beri wanted was for all of Bree to panic and the untrained townsfolk to try and take up arms against this foe.
He worked with Mortermon earlier to catch a thief who turned out to be a half orc. That alone concerned Beri. Not often were these ilk alone. The white hand on the cloak concerned him more. He thought he heard rumours that this threat from far to the South was dealt with. So why was this half orc here?
The matter of the thefts were also concerning him; bits of metal here and there. From horseshoes, to bellow chains. From the hoops off barrels to various tools. Even an attempt on an anvil was made.
To him, it seemed like there were far more nefarious actions going on here. Perhaps they were gathering metal to arm for a raid on farms and Bree. He needed to find out, and he needed to find out quickly.
