''Bree-town''

My work begins in Bree, the largest settlement of Men in the North. After Arnor was divided, it fell within the borders of Arthedain, close to its neighbouring sister-kingdom of Cardolan. After the Kingdoms were defeated at the hands of Angmar, it became an independent city that lost its Numenorian identity over time.

I have now been in Bree-land long enough to form some fair and settled opinions regarding the folk of these parts.  I have previously scribed some impressions of the Hobbit-people, strange and new as they were to me, but have been in no especial hurry to likewise record my observations of the Men (the “Big Folk”, as hobbits oft refer to us) that live around and alongside them.

Isulril reclined across the soft grass that stuck through the cracks of the old ruin above the town of Bree. She looked up at the daytime sky, smiling faintly. Indeed, her mood was like the sky itself. Sometimes sunny with fluffy white clouds flitting about as now, but sometimes the clouds obscured the sun, or the sun was gone altogether and one might scarce see a star. It was not something she enjoyed, but it was, she knew, something that those closest to her knew was her flaw. Her main flaw, perhaps, these mood swings.

I never needed poison. I never needed to hide. I never needed the pseudonym of Mrs. P. I never needed any of these trappings. No, indeed. Sometimes the pen is mightier than the poignard, and so I used it upon Hathostaran, and I will use it here to tell the tale.

Hiding. It was interesting all the ways Isulril could hide, and had hidden herself in the past. She was never delighted in hiding, never particularly enjoyed it. She rather preferred being the center of attention, the gem upon which everyone looked with awe. Those days were over, of course, though she did sometimes strike residents of Bree with awe with her wardrobe. 

There had been an agreement, and a time had been set. The woman who knocked on the door wore a hooded cloak and was dressed in rags. One hand was gloved in wool, and the other looked out of place for such a person. The right hand, the hand which was knocking, was slender, its nails well manicured. When the door opened, she lowered her hand and allowed it to slip beneath her cloak.

She knew nothing of suffering. She was excessively rich, for a woman of Bree. She dressed too lavishly. She relied too much on her moods and was bad at hiding them. She should live on the streets with the working women, selling herself for coin.

All of these thoughts came to her in the days following the events of the previous days. They were not originally her own thoughts, but rather, things that had been said to and of her over the past week, and even before that. Flashes of what had happened over those days came to her, and she clenched the fist of her uninjured hand.