The fields are cold at night. Mama never warned me of that.
I suppose it is my own doing, this stinking cold I can feel forming in my chest.
Ahead of me is Bree. Before I could see it, I'd heard it. Bustling music, sounds of horses and carriages. I had heard a concert only last night before I set up camp inside this Willow tree.
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The Hike to Bree.
Submitted by Cellestine on March 17th, 2022
