𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 • 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑

02. strangers and pipesmoke

——[～Æ～]——

——[～Æ～]——

six weeks later...

    "Does it ever stop raining in these parts?"

     Bellowing thunder companioned by a blast of icy wind throwing back her hood was nature's equally unamused answer. Sazrat flicked her hood up once more before running a gloved hand across her dripping face. The hood blew back again; she gave up, allowing her hair to be plastered to her head by the deluge.

     "Which old bastard did they infuriate to be cursed with rain?" she growled. Then, a sardonic huff of laughter. "Or perhaps they're so foolish that they believe this weather perfectly normal."

     Her foot caught; she plunged into the frigid puddle. A long string of curses poured from her mouth as she crawled back to her feet, wrapping her muddied cloak tighter around her as if it'd help. When she made it her intention to appear at the gates of Bree looking as travel-worn as possible, this was not what she had in mind. It would have to do, however, as just up ahead was the glow of lanterns.

     Sazrat threw her fist three times against the sealed gate, waited a breath, then pounded again. A panel slid open in front of her, and the face of an old man shoved through.

     "What business do you have in Bree?" the gatekeeper shouted to be heard over the storm.

     "I seek shelter at the Inn of the Prancing Pony," she answered just as loudly. "I intend to remain in Bree for a spell, to rest and earn some gold for the road."

     His squinted eyes narrowed further as they looked her up and down.

     "It's the strange folk and dark things which come knockin' at this hour, young lady."

     "Which is why I seek shelter behind walls, or I'd have waited until a dryer hour to disturb your shift."

     The old man nodded, still scowling, and slammed his little panel shut. Jaw stiffening, she raised her fist to pound on the gate again just before it swung open. Sazrat stumbled through, mumbling some curse upon slippery cobblestone and pulling her hoods further over her face. The gatekeeper didn't pay her further heed once she'd passed him by except to close the gate and lock it once more, trapping her in the blustered village.

     Bree had barely aged a day in seventy years. The worn buildings were dark and looming, roofs disappearing into the darkness above, yet the golden glow and hearty laughter pouring from their windows was like a cry of welcome. People plodded the streets, their heads down against the rain. A raggedy pony trundled by with a cart; a man eating a raw carrot stepped out in front of Sazrat, almost running into her. She could have almost sworn the exact same man had done the exact same thing to her last she'd been in Bree. Somehow, it was a comfort to Sazrat that unlike most of Middle-Earth, the village was quite the same, as obstinate against time as she was.