Lenwood

Barliman is a kind soul, for all his fluster. I have a little space in the Pony's hayloft, warm from the horses below and sweet with the scent of this summer's hay. The baby-season is here, and so I will take a few weeks in Bree. A rest from wandering, although not from work. In the dark of winter there is little to do at night to amuse man and wife ... and so, the results appear now, nine months on. A time filled with women and their needs, a joyful time for most, every year I pray it is so.

A hundred roofs and chimneys, highlighted by the rising moon ensnare my eyes as the west-gate locks behind me. The road ahead becomes strangely compelling, climbing eastwards through the town, leading my eyes to the looming Menelvagor glittering in the night sky, guarding ceaselessly over the homes of these men. The rustic air is strong here as I wander up the paved street and processions of creaking wood and sharp snaps follow my strides from the many window shutters eitherside. The Swordsman becomes my only companion along this lonely road.

*Sat on a table in the Pony, Barley munched up the scraps of meat on the dented iron plate.  Giggling at his enthusiasm she lay the journal on the table and opening it at a clean page, she begins to write

*Quickly she grabs the plate before it is nosed off the edge of the table.  Lifting Bareley toward a small bowl of water she continues, looking over her words and frowning before putting ink to paper..