Bree

The smell of stew, burnt wood and tobacco smoke permeated the atmosphere, but without being overwhelming. The main room of The Prancing Pony was large enough that the twenty or so people who were there were not crammed together. There was nothing to set this night apart from any other night: no suspicious group of travelers, no performances by musicians present beyond the quiet tunes of local bard Owen, no fights or affronts that would force Barliman to intervene...

The sound of hammer against anvil in the forge and axes against wood on the various work tables could be heard at an uneven pace at all times inside Three-farrow Crafting Hall. But the study area was at a lower level and separate from the rougher work area, and by some marvel of architecture the high ceilings of the hall seemed to attract the noises.

It is difficult to imagine two places less alike than Forochel and Bree-land. The cold, sparsely-populated northern lands have a beauty about them, it is true, but with the greatest of respect to the Lossoth, it was with relief that I began the long journey back to Bree. 

Bree, half a lifetime ago

The day her mother died it was sunny. Only eleven years old, she didn’t stop crying for weeks. If the skies were dry, her tears would replace the mourning of rain. 

Bree, Present Day

Meeting of Minds

Greenlake Cottage, Pemberth in the Bree-land

At the Starmere Lake, a seduction most sensual takes place.

It was to be expected. Ryheric is a bard according to the people of Bree. Though, the title is modestly (or obnoxiously) denied by the man himself.

Bards, scalds, minstrels. Traveling musicians, these drifter types do have a certain social reputation. Farmers in Bree aimed to keep their daughters away from Ryheric.

The man had too easy a smile and was rather dark looking with a vicious sword almost always at his hip. In Bree he had met most of those he knew at the tavern.