Ferawyn

Still in Bree, two days before we set out east. The tavern of Barliman was filled with men of the mark this day, drinking, laughter and boasting about their strength. It attracted the attention of many other people who joined without invitation, the savage tribesman a shady sea captain and some other patrons. Melowen clearly recovered from her wounds as she was already picking a fight with this savage who is about twice her size.

The gash on her cheek smarted, as did her swollen lip, but Fera had held her own. The cold drove people to desperate measures, and while she wanted to believe that the brutish man who had laid his fists into her had only done so out of desperation, it had not stayed her hand from retaliating. She was no waif to be knocked down without a fight, nor did she fear rising to her feet again to defend herself against a man twice her size. She had seen the frantic look in his eyes, and it had unnerved her.

The snow was falling thick and fast outside the lodge window, a blur of white flakes filling the night sky as they fell silently to the earth below. It had begun snowing at midday, light flurries that had posed little problem to the intrepid adventurers. As dusk approached, however, the snow had begun to slow them down considerably. The cold bit at their cheeks, and their steps grew more and more laboured as they trudged along a path which was becoming increasingly hard to discern.

The clatter of empty pewter tankards rolling across a stone floor; the frantic whir of wooden bowls spinning on their rims, as they tried to right themselves; and amidst it all, the distinct, raspy tones of a female voice yelling a deluge of profanity.  Some rather imaginative profanity, at that. It was a cacophony of noise, and this particular din was emanating from the great hall of the Esquires.

The first snow had started to fall, and though it was beautiful to watch, it worried Fera. She doubted it posed any real threat to her companions, who were at this moment traveling south to scout safe passage to the Riddermark. Never the less, it was a sign of the fast approach of Winter. She sat on the stone steps outside the door of her home with her faithful hound, Breaga, at her side. Together, they watched as the ground, which had become hard with the cold and frost, slowly disappeared beneath a dusting of white snow.

Irwfrith stood next to the meadhall and inspected his horse which seemed to be heavy weighted down by the equipment he had placed on it. He couldn't help to find pity for the horse, for it was carrying on provisions and equipment for three persons.