treeshepherds

Nimlindir sat upon the bed in her room in the inn of the Prancing Pony, Bree-town, Eriador. She leaned over the small writing table, quill in hand, penning a goodbye missive to her companions. The musty smell of tobacco curlicued like little tornados through the cracks of the wood stained walls. The floor rattled from the stomps of revelry in the main room and unrequited love in the hallways.