Dirk

Incessant was the pattering of rain in the dark. A rhythmic dripping from nose and limb to join that of one large puddle covering the entire causeway, at its base the water formed a larger mass swilling with that of the mud which slid from the banks of the pathway. Rows of men stood ankle deep in water, though one could easily count a dwindled number, only amounting to thirty shield arms.

It was an early dawn, and the weakened sun sifted through the dusty panes of the Pony. A few patrons meandered here and there, no doubt expecting breakfast, but none too many that Barliman couldn’t handle. A swift trek it would be, through to the cemetery not far north of the town, to see to the grave of her father.

Dirk, a tailor by trade, often frequented different places of beauty throughout Bree-land, on his increasingly lengthy dinner breaks. He spent his days working and treating leathers in a workshop in Combe. He was a man who focused on the smaller things in life, good food and ale but also that of nature. One would often, when in his company, think of him as shy; but he bore a joyful and genuine smile and would attempt to bring cheer out of the grumpiest of fellows. There is no doubt he kept to himself, and often did….until one early morning in spring.