Trestlebridge

The first thing that Fion saw when the entered The Thristy Boar was a letter left on the counter for him. He took, it, poured a mug of ale and took his usual sit on the stage. He made to take his pipe and start smoking but seeing who it was he released the pipe from his grasp and kept reading, drinking the ale every now and then.

Fiontann, my friend,

I am in need of your help. I am not one to tangle my words, so I will come straight to the point.

It has been some time since I set quill to this old journal. Whether out of laziness or just not wanting to read my own thoughts, I can't tell. I have time now, laying in bed so here it goes. 

The afternoon sun was just past its pinnacle in the sky and on its way descending towards the horizon when it paused to shed light on the hard-working town of Trestlebridge. It brought forth sweat from the necks of carpenters sawing down lumber, glinted against the swords of guards practicing combat, and illuminated the anxious faces of mothers trying to feed their children with little in their larders.

The dapple-grey horse seemed to be enjoying the attentive brushing of the fair-haired young woman. He had been restless in a foreign stable surrounded by foreign stable hands until the return of normalcy: Ellany smoothing his coat down with a coarse brush after a hard day’s ride.

Miss Charlotte could hear the rhythmic chopping of a knife coming from the kitchen beyond the main hall as she entered through the front door and set her cloak on the peg beside the door. The steady sound was at odds with the sporadic hammering inside her chest, since she had bustled up the hill to the Litwell home faster than she was used to walking. She wasted no time in crossing the entrance hall and proceeded in towards the kitchen.