Spring has finally come, but it has not yet brought the full warmth of longer days and in the darkness just before dawn, it might as well still be winter. Clouds roil ominously overhead, a brighter spot showing where the moon hides behind, shedding no light to cheer the denizons of the earth. Thick gloomy shadows huddle at the base of walls, beneath trees, between buildings... but one seems to move just a little. Someone moves with ill-practiced stealth from under a tree, hesitates and then darts across the entrance to the Pony, just outside a swinging pool of yellow light cast from the lantern that hangs to brighten the way.


Another shadow detaches itself from the deep dim near the stables. This one is stretched, broad, and turns its indistinct head to mark the progress of the fleeting one. The shade hesitates, (a black curling coil slipping fluidly from its cloaked arm to be lost within the darkness), then with practiced silence, stalks behind.


Tathar's footsteps falter, though surely she could not have heard anything, and her scarlet cloak, dimmed to dark rusty brown by the night, catches a heel and ripples behind her. Her head turns from side to side as she walks and without warning, she cuts sideways, reappearing a little ways further. Now she walks on the verge, her feet softer and quieter in the winter-dead grasses that line the road.


The one who follows tilts his head with amused interest, as if he hunts a wild creature, rarely seen; and surpassing good luck to capture. Drystan slips into her steps with scarcely a sound, curiosity his keeper. In an upper room of the Inn, a guest stirs, raising a window with a grating creak. And somewhere the slurred laughing speech of one tardy for bed rings against the cobbles. But these two are locked into a silent world, held only to the next step.


The window scrapes and Tathar freezes. For a long moment she stands, poised on one foot, and then continues. At last she comes near to the great eastern gate and her steps slow. The gate is shut, looming high and black overhead; and no light shows in the gatekeeper's window.


Drystan falls still precisely when she does, as if he is naught but her shadow, come inexplicably undone. One hidden brow slowly arches, considering glance flicking to the gate, and again to her small back.


The small figure wavers, uncertain; and then determination firms her back and informs her footsteps. Still quietly, she turns and worms her way into the darker shadows that fall alongside the great hedge that makes up part of the wall here, melting into blackness as if no more than a (slightly noisier than normal) shadow herself. Something small and black sails through the air a moment later, and lands with a barely-heard thud on the other side of the wall.


Her hunter pauses, squinting futilely into the heavy dim. Uncertain, he holds his ground, still as the wall itself, awaiting his quarry's next move.


Branches rustle.. it could be the wind, but there is no breeze tonight.. and then something that definitely is not born of the night joins in. Softly, all but under her breath, but still easily heard to those not far or who listen with care, small muttered imprecations litter the night. "Ouch!" "Stupid branch." "Ssss..."


A small, crooked smile twists over Drystan's face in the dim from which he watches. Shadowed eyes narrow consideringly, darting over the gate and its lodge, the sleeping town behind. The strangely sentient tree. Soft as thought, he creeps after, patiently waiting, certain of her success.


The shaking branches creep slowly up the wall, until a small lumpy bit of darkness creeps triumphantly over the top and stops again. Somehow, the down side always looks much farther than it did coming up... Several long moments pass, and Tathar doesn't move. A wind begins to blow, chill and grey and thin; clouds passing before it and veiling even the small lighter spot that betold of the moon, and still she remains atop the hedgy wall.


The longer the hesitation winds out into the coming dawn, the deeper the furrow over Drystan's brow. He looks to the gate, as if considering offering his aid from the other side. And to the base of the helpful tree, as if contemplating coaxing her down. But as the last vestiges of winter curl, piercing over the grey town, he looks only to Tathar perched with safety behind and the wide world ahead; awaiting her choice with a strange expression.


The dark town huddles behind. Imperceptibly, the air has lightened, and thin fingers of smoke curl greyly towards the clouds. One light, then another, then two more, spring to life in different windows... the earliest of the town's risers are awake.

Tathar crouches indecisively atop the hedge, her eyes surveying the wildness ahead of her and then turns around to look back. Her gaze flickers from the one yellow window she can see, to a rooftop, and down along the road until it stops at... "Th-thorn?" Either cold or astonishment or some other emotion has caused her low voice to stutter. "Is th-that you?" And she squirms backwards a little to see him better.


"It is." Softly he speaks, face upturned in the same interested waiting. "But who is this, scaling the walls at improper hours? Miss Appledore would never be driven to such a thing."


A small pale oval of a face turns downwards as his turns up. Her chin seems to jut out at a little more determined angle, and if he were closer or if the sky were brighter, tear-stains might be seen on the cheeks above it. "It's me," she says and a little giggle breaks through, instantly hushed. "I.. I have to go find Toby," she says then and gulps a little. "Mother was.. was crying and Father /threw/ things. I don't know what he did, but he's not at home and I'm going to go find him."


"It's dangerous out there," Drystan notes, impassively quiet. "No Mother to see that you are safely home by the dark's settling. Creatures wander the deep places, and twisting roads, more deadly than your worst imaginings." He tilts his head. "Who will guard you?"


There is only a slight waver to the small determined voice now. "I have my knife... and you showed me how to use it.. and.." She stops and swallows audibly. "A-are there trolls nearby?"


A faint smile ghosts over his lips and is lost to the dark. "There are trolls. And wolves, and bandits. And worse." Drystan steps nearer, lifting one arm to offer his hand - though the distance between is still considerable. "If you come down now, I will see that you are hidden safely a-bed before Mother stirs."


A hand reaches down a little ways towards his and halts. "But... Toby," she says. "I - I have to find him. What if he's hurt or something?" Faint outlines can now be seen, like wraiths of themselves against the still dark and clouded sky, and Tathar glances nervously over her shoulder. "What if a wolf attacked him? He might need me."


His fingers stretch up towards hers, and pause, patiently. "That may be. But are you the one to seek him? Alone?" Drystan glances to the gatekeeper's lodge, grey against the green-tinged sky. "Come, Tathar. Make your choice. Will you chase your blood into the wild, or wait for him in safety?"


The gatekeepers lodge to the southwest is shut up tight, and smoke curls merrily from its chimney. Suddenly light flares as a window is unshuttered for a moment.

The sound of voices drifts on the air for a moment - the soft, slow murmuring of conversation interspersed with bursts of laughter, a pleasant sound indeed. Then the window is reshuttered and the speech no longer audible.

A little later, the door to the lodge opens, and an elderly man is silhouetted there, one hand curled around his staff and the other raised to his mouth in a yawn. Somehow he doesn't look impressive enough to be a gatekeeper. The oldster turns to call out a muffled 'goodnight' and leans against the wall, still blinking and yawning. Unlikely he's taken in much of his surroundings yet.


Small even teeth bite unhappily at a lip. "I..." she hesitates again, looking behind her at the barren lands stretching out into oblivion and then at the small comfortable town before her. Her hand descends a little farther and then she freezes, doing an excellent imitation of a rabbit frightened by a hawk. Little more than a dark uneven blob atop the wall, she might pass for an odd clump of leaves to the casual passerby... or not be seen at all.


Drystan steps fluidly into the heaviest darkness beneath the tree, dark glance flicking from the gatekeeper's light up to the shadow of her heel. Black head tilted back, he hesitates, then lifts his gloved hand again to her, with a questioning glance; neither demanding she comply, nor advising she go. Waiting in a silence, edged now with urgency.


The door to the lodge falls softly shut, and the old man who's just stepped out - none other than old Hugh Bramblefleece - halts in place, mouth opening in a yawn once more. It is then he hears it: rustlings, rustlings in the dark! The small lantern that someone has thoughtfully affixed to his staff reveals no more than a yellowed puddle of light at his own feet, and there is a long moment of silence before his trembling lips part to utter a quavering, "What? Someone out there?"

Uncertainly now, he starts to fumble along the wall towards the place where it meets the rustling hedge, his staff prodding at the ground before him with every step as though to flush out some small animal. After all, if there /is/ something out there he's got backup, hasn't he?

Good question. The door to the gatekeeper's lodge is heavy and solid, deadening sound, and its inhabitants are likely re-ensconced in the pastimes designed to while away the long dead hours of the night.


An arm snakes back up into the darkness and a branch scrapes against another. Tathar's eyes remain fixed on Drystan's face as she carefully raises her hand in farewell. And there is a rustle, a dull thump and then silence but for the fitful breeze that catches at the hedge. Outside the wall, did any watch to see, a small dark form slips from tree to tree, slowly but surely working her way farther from Bree.


The man's breath catches, startlement striking him solidly as she makes her choice, and drops into the darkness beyond. His outstretched fingers curl into the thorny hedge as he stares at the absence, listening to the distant pattering of her escape.

But not long.

The louder, lumbering approach of the keeper (grotesquely illumined by his swinging lantern) demands that Drystan stir, and swiftly. Soft as a shadow in truth, he backs away, avoiding the edges of the light.


Hugh halts stock-still at the thump, craning his head as though he could see through the screening branches. Which he can't, of course. His breathing sounds loud in the chill night air ... but the pitterpatter of feet is receding. "That's it. Away with ye, ye varmint!" he calls out into the darkness, thumping with the base of his staff at the first bit of hedge he reaches. The lantern quivers violently, and he has to reach his free hand up to it. "Ehh ..." What of Drystan's retreat? It goes entirely unnoticed.