On the footsteps of the Crows

An Unexpected Request

Not having rained in the previous days, the sound of worn leather shoes was quite audible with its classic dull sound, nothing like the louder trampling on sticky mud that managed to emerge from the stone tiles of Bree.

Walking along the main street, Bree could perhaps boast the widest choice of races that managed to live peacefully in the citadel; in fact, not having even a private militia, its military strength was practically non-existent but was more than compensated for by the constant chatter of merchants with a quick tongue and travellers laden with gold and weariness, taking advantage of being the last civilized outpost for a considerable distance in any cardinal direction large enough not to be considered like the humbler villages around them, such as Stadle, Conca or Arecto, places seasoned by picturesque tribes of raiding orcs and dangerous wild animals such as wolves that had their hunting grounds just outside the barricades.

Ezyel had also heard of hungry Worgs that had ventured to prey even on some villagers from a far-off place, but had no evidence of the fact, although she was sure she had heard the ballad of a blacksmith that was so loud it had annihilated and broken the skull of an adult Worg with his work hammer, hence named "Worgslayer" as a rather pompous title that had started to circulate.

Even of that, Ezyel was not at all certain, as she walked along the narrow street with a calculated step from years of living in that single citadel where she knew every little detail, making way for passers-by, getting lost in her own thoughts about how realistic the stories told by travelling minstrels could be, like a mountain full of gold guarded by a fearsome dragon: it couldn't be so grandiose, so real as to even have a position in the world of Middle Earth.

While she was reflecting, she finally arrived in front of the Inn of the Reared-up Colt, the only, most famous and important meeting point of the citadel, which regularly saw its tables filled with travellers and locals, finally deciding to stop dawdling in front of the entrance, stretching out her calloused hand to lower the handle of the massive wooden door, passing under the sign of the white colt reared up, illuminated by the lantern, not even bothering to read the title of the tavern and its current innkeeper, knowing him since she was a child.

The acrid smell of smoke, sweat, and food immediately made her curl her nose at the violence of the clash, but she quickly got used to it, knowing just as well that the less she tried to fixate on the smells, the less sensitive she would be to them.

She rubbed the back of her hand under her nose to get used to the place more quickly, while her round-cut eyes surveyed the surroundings to study them and allow herself to be studied in turn, raising a hand to greet an old woman with a ringing voice and a fat laugh who knew her, then concentrating around again, moving the anonymous brown hair tightly coiled in a high bun on her head, held in place by pins and clips of poor metal without decorations, created specifically not to be seen.

Easily spotting a table full of travellers, fifteen in all, Ezyel smoothed out the dress she had finally decided to wear, the one that was used to make a good impression and only worn at important events, a hope green that reached to her ankles, opening a little in a faded merlon of trefoils, pulling closer to her chest the leather jacket embroidered along the entire perimeter of waves that intertwined like coils, opening on the chest in the shape of a heart before closing again at the waist.

Ezyel also noticed that the entire congregation was eating hastily in order to get back on the road as quickly as possible, so the young human became even more convinced that this was the time to intervene. She stretched her dress to make sure there were fewer wrinkles than there actually were, hastily ironed with the stupid piece of iron that had been heated near the fire. Ezyel took a deep breath before taking the first step, then the second, and a third, getting closer to the table of the strange and varied travellers.

The faces immediately turned to her, but she ignored them and refused to be intimidated, taking larger steps as her green skirt rolled around her calves without hindering her progress towards the table. The band gradually raised their faces from their food, casting suspicious or questioning glances at the approach of a stranger to their table, when in fact many patrons couldn't exactly be considered upstanding citizens.

It was common for many travellers to be bounty hunters, fugitive criminals, but also gentle minstrels and brave adventurers. It was more a matter of luck and knowing how to quickly adapt to those around them.

When the whole table turned to her, certain that anyone from the most naive to the most cunning had noticed her presence and started asking questions, Ezyel slammed her open hand on the laden table, making her way between two of the thirteen present dwarves and entering their personal space, as well as that of a hobbit and an elderly man. She opened her lips to evoke her voice with a clear and strong tone.

"Hello, take me with you to the Lonely Mountain."