================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Thu Feb 20 17:31:20 2003
Bree time: Mid Morning on Sterday of Summer - July 21,1428
Moon Phase: Full Moon
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Breelands Weather
The mid morning summer air is very hot and dry around you. The rain continues to pour around you.

Great East Road: South of Bree
A large out-thrust foot of Bree-hill forces the Great East here to bend around it. As a result, the Road only runs straight for a short distance east and west at the very southern edge of the hill. As the road follows the hill, it runs north west toward Bree and north east toward the Chetwood. The foot, as is the hill itself, is brown and sprinkled with a few patches of trees, especially on the lower slopes.


It is still rather early in the day, but most are up and about. However, the weather is uncooperative and the steady rain is only welcome in that it cuts the oppressive heat from the air slightly. A low grumble of thunder rolls over the lands occasionally, but there is little wind, no lightning, and a lot of rain. The ground is soaked and footfalls squish. And so it is with the horse that approaches - a great, dark bay war stallion. His hooves, instead of a cheerful clop of metal on firm ground or stone, squish, and his legs are splattered with mud and wet grasses. His rider is none the better, for his boots are also covered in the mud thrown up from his mount's hooves. His dark blue cloak is heavy and wet, and sticks to him like a sodden skin. The hood is over his head to ward off the ill weather, yet hangs bleakly from the rain and drips from the hem. The rider approaches from the south toward a little hill, where is nestled a few small tents, perhaps difficult to see if one was not looking for them. A muddy fire ring (naturally, with no fire in it) is more or less in the center of this campsite and two other white horses graze not too far off. The rider stops before reaching the camp proper and dismounts, pulling a few coneys from the back of the horse and shouldering his hunting impliments - a strong shortbow and a quiver of arrows.


There is another on the road this miserable morning, a little man bundled up in a cloak. He trudges up the road from Bree keeping his outer garment tightly wrapped around his body, as if determined to stay dry despite the rain. Yet even the squishing sound of his boots on the mud do not keep his sharp ears from hearing unusual sounds, this time another who is equally foolish to be out in such weather. Perhaps curiosity drives him forward with quick steps so he can catch even a glimpse of the other. (Wilbert)


And still farther behind, swathed in a cloak of her own but with the hood down, a girl follows the man. Dark brown hair that is turned nearly black by the rain is plastered to her head, save for a few aberrant locks that curl ferociously about her face. Water runs down her forehead and drips off the turned-up tip of her nose. The pervasive mud sucks at her thin bare feet but she doesn't seem to notice, for her dark eyes are fixed on the small figure ahead of her. (Tathar)


The rider leaves the war horse to graze after stroking his nose affectionately, then sloshes through to the camp. A rock and a few old stumps serve as seats, and upon one of these he does sit, his cloak hem falling into the mud. He puts the coneys down on a thick log to use as a butcher block and pushes his hood back off of his face. His black hair with perhaps a trace of burgandy-red in it, hangs in wet waves, curling loosely on his neck and brow. It is not long enough to tie back, but it is somewhat ineffectually held back from his eyes by a circlet of solid gold. The rain patters on his head, but he seems to take little notice of it as he pulls a dagger from his belt. The jewel-encrusted grip glitters even in the murky light, flashing all shades of red and gold. The blade itself is a bright steely sheen, but without a pause, he sets to skinning the hares carefully to preserve the hides and waste none of the flesh. He takes no notice of the passerby on the road on the other side of the hill, either assuming few would be out in the weather, or those that are would not leave the road to come around the hill on such an unpleasant morning.


Threealong this short stretch of road? Hardly believable. Now caught between wanting to see the one ahead and the one behind, Wilbert pauses just beside the hillside. Though he does his best to look inconspicuous, the spot that he has chosen to lurk beside may not have been the best of all possible places, for the rain hitting the dry soil trickles down the hill in a little stream, off a short bank, and into a ditch just beside the road, splashing the man standing there. His cloak only conceals part of his face; on the other side is a disgusted frown.


A smile lights up Tathar's as Wilbert stops and she hurries to catch up with him. "Where are you going? Can I come too?" she asks, beginning still several steps away. "How come you're out in the rain anyways? You'll get all wet." She sloshes to a stop beside him and eyes the small waterfall. "Why don't you move along a bit? That's making you muddy too," she points out helpfully.


The stranger with the dark hair works at the rabbits for a while and soon has them all skinned. He lays out the furs skin-side up to let the rain wash them off, then pulls three cracked arrows from his quiver. He uses these to spear the gutted game, then he leaves them by the dead fire. He'll cook them when one can be started. He washes his hands in a pot that has collected some rainwater and then stands, tucking some of his hair behind his ear and looking off to the south where the horses are grazing. The dull roar of the rain falling dampens the voices nearby, but though he might have heard them if he was more attentive, he seems to be thinking of something - daydreaming, as it were.


The older man eyes Tathar, brow furrowing. "If I had wanted you to come along, wouldn't I have asked you?" he snaps. "I'm going to Staddle, and if that's where you're headed, well, continue on--but I wouldn't say we'd be walking together. Go along now, and don't wait up for me." As Wilbert is about to take another step, a movement off the road catches his eye, and he holds an arm out. "Wait," he says in a low voice. "There's someone out there, off the road. Be careful where you walk, and watch out. I don't think you want to run into any of these strangers we've had of late."


A scowl descends abruptly over Tathar's face. "No," she says with asperity. "/You/ wouldn't ask me anywhere." Then she grins at him cheerfully. "That's why I came anyways."

His warning widens her eyes, but instead of sending her back to Bree (if that's what he intended), she crowds up behind him and stares as if she could see through the hill.


As the morning wears on wetly, and travellers move to and fro near the entrance of this trade town, a somewhat familiar face to the local folk smirks as its owner rides a pony through the south Gate at a fairly quick pace before coming to a rest in the general vicinity of Wilbert and others. He spies the little man being dumped upon by the hill itself and shakes his head, the smirk continuing. He pats the pony's neck, saying something quietly to him before dismounting. He stretches, reaching up toward the sky, apparently oblivious to the copious amounts of water falling from the sky.


The man in the camp turns back to his various duties, washing and drying (as best he can), he dagger before putting it back into the sheath on his belt. As he does so, an almost grotesquely decorated longsword flashes for a moment, the sheath encrusted in bloodstones and carbuncles. But soon it is hidden again and he puts his bow and arrows into what must be his own little tent, to let them dry off. He mutters to himself about the rain, but no one could hear this any distance from the camp.


"You followed me?" asks Wilbert dubiously. "Why would you want to do that? I'm no fun at all; you said so yourself. Run along back to town now." With that command, he shoos the girl off with both hands, like one would do a stray cat--but while doing so, spies another dark figure in the rain. With a sigh, he gives in. "Come now, you can come with me, I suppose--but only if you keep quiet and don't splash." He takes a cautious step back onto the road, tossing a brief gaze both forward and back. It's a fix he's gotten into--unpleasant people in front and behind.


Tathar nods vigorously, sending raindrops flying from her soggy hair. "I'll be quiet," she hisses; it is close to a whisper. And she tiptoes after him; which endeavor is futile as an attempt at silence, for the mud slurps louder than ever at her ankles. Eager eyes peer around, catching each bush and discarding it.


Ferny - that's the name of the man who's dismounted the pony - finishes his rough calisthenics and exhales loudly. "All right, ol Bill... we can't dawdle long. Getting through town that quickly was right smart, but we have to keep moving...folks are watching for us, to be sure. And the Inn's not more than another day from here. Let's be off!" The pony grunts as Ferny climbs back atop and kicks his ribs. "Bill" the pony wanders slowly off away from town at the man's request.


"I just don't want any trouble," explains Wilbert as he starts forward. "You know, just don't talk to them, and you must hope they don't try to talk to you. If they do, you're in trouble--that's what I learned the other day. And stay out of their way." As he walks into the rain, the small man wraps his cloak further, the hole for his face closing up. "Perhaps they'll be too busy for us with this horrid dampness." Another glance behind him shows that at least one of the men has left, and the other is hidden by the hill; some things, if not the weather, are improving.


Aethelraed, the name the man in the camp has been using, looks up as if in a bleak hope that it will stop raining. He looks toward the town, whose rooftops he can see from here, and considers heading toward the tavern there. Perhaps the people are rude and distrustful, but at least it is dry...


"Who's they?" Tathar asks curiously, forgetting to whisper. "And why shouldn't you talk to them? You hear all kinds of things from people. Even if they are making fun of you." A brief frown draws her eyebrows together and then is banished. "The other day someone told me he knew someone who was really really old. Older than Granny Bea even, and not a hobbit. I think he was teasing me though." Suddenly she remembers she's supposed to be being quiet and a hand flies up to cover her mouth and she glances at Wilbert, stricken. "I'm sorry..." This is truly a whisper.


"You know," Wilbert muses as they continue and his companion--or at least someone who has invited herself to walk beside him--stops herself from chattering. "You'll never grow old if you keep talking like that, without being asked any questions. You'll use up all the breath's your given faster, and then you won't live to be as old. Not even as old as a man, let alone a hobbit."


"I will not! I get more everytime I breathe in again." She puffs a few times loudly to prove her point. "And besides, if you don't ask questions, how are you supposed to learn anything? It's not like people just up and tell me things I want to know." She brushes a drip from her eyes and looks around again.


The visitor stays by his horse, well out of earshot of the talking humans.