Harla's Tale: Heart of Fire

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A Hobbit’s Silence

“Brightwood, you say?” Harla licked her fingers, claiming the last few crumbs and lemon flavour, then raised her tea cup to her lips with the other hand. “Candac Brightwood, hmm? Why am I not surprised?” Lily Sandheaver, sitting across from her, sipping her own tea, did seem surprised, however.

“Oh, but he’s normally so reliable, you see. You say it like you’ve had dealings with him before, and not good ones by the sound of it. Has he done you an ill turn recently as well?” Harla grimaced, glad they had eaten before brining up business. She was quite sure any food would be rendered flavourless if she tried to eat now.
“You could say that. Anyhow, you have an arrangement with him, to deliver interesting artefacts from out his way, and he’s let you down, is it?” Harla stirred another spoonful of sugar into her tea and took another sip. Lily blushed faintly, still embarrassed.
“Well, no, not let down, not exactly, not yet. But you see, he ought to have come by already, he’s a week late, and well, you see I’ve got this rivalry with Mirabella Underhill, just over the way, and I really must show her up this time around, only our party is set three days from now, and if I don’t get a delivery soon I shall have nothing new to show for it at all, and that would be just too much shame to bear.” Harla forced the grip on her teacup to remain relaxed, but her other hand, resting in her lap under the table, clenched into a tight fist. Friend or not, she wanted to punch the woman for saying something like that. The other woman didn’t appear to notice her guest’s discomfort.

“Anyway, I know you like travelling around, dear, and you’ve said before you do work to help people out, for the coin, so, I was wondering if you might be able to go and chase up Candac, find out what’s keeping him?” Harla calmed herself. Some other cause for having it out with the man might do her good, after all. She nodded.
“I think I could manage that for you Lily; I think I want a word with him myself anyway.” Her brows drew down for a moment. “In fact, consider this one a favour on me, no charge.” Lily raised one hand to her mouth, seemingly taken aback.
“Oh my, you look positively frightful with that look in your eyes, Harla dear. However did he wrong you?” Harla shook her head, relaxing her features again.
“It’s nothing, Lily, not anything important enough to worry you about, but I will certainly be back before your party, I promise, and I’ll bring you what he owes you myself if I need to.” She finished her tea, setting the delicate cup back on its saucer.

By the time Harla had said her goodbyes to Lily and refreshed her various supplies, the sun was creeping towards midafternoon. She weighed her options. It wouldn’t be pressing to get as far as the Forsaken Inn again by nightfall, but there was absolutely no way she could stomach staying there another night, that much was certain. Even so, it seemed a bit silly to take on a job, then just stay in the inn up the road. She made her way to the south gate and look down the road. If she walked as far as Sasham, at least, she could stop by that lodge she’d been invited to visit, rest there for the night, then be able to sort out her business with Brightwood the next morning, and leave before the day was old. She nodded to herself, and waved briefly to the gate guard as she set out again.

As she walked, Harla found herself wondering exactly what she’d find when she go there. The mercenary woman, a huntress, that had invited her to stop by had first called it a hunting lodge, but then described it as a rest house that she and a number of other colleagues and comrades of hers, probably mercenaries as well, often used between work, but none of them actually treated as a home. More to the point, she wondered if that meant that there wouldn’t’ be any decent food set by. The woman, Niara was her name, didn’t seem to eat much at all, and had favoured plain, simple food that did the job of nourishing, and little else, on the few occasions that they had worked together. The signs did not bode well, all in all.

Harla drew a deep breath as the Sasham neighbourhood unfolded before her, enjoying the smells of new grass and running water. There was small, quick-flowing stream flowing through the area, from a waterfall at the back end of the village. The light was already beginning to fade as she looked around. The house on the hill, by the large empty hall, with a pavilion out front, and a small herb garden; that was what she’d said. She stopped for a moment to roll her shoulders and stretch as she reached the top of the hill. That must be the pavilion she was talking about, ahead of her, so… Harla wandered over, then turned to look at the small, single storey house she was standing in front of. The foundations were built up off the ground, with stone steps leading up to the front door. There were thick curtains drawn over the windows and she couldn’t see inside, but the neat herb garden just inside the low stone wall looked healthy and well cared for, so that was a good sign.

Harla climbed the steps to the door, and paused, one hand on her hip, the other rising to scruff through her hair for a moment. Now, the woman had said that the latch key should be in a gap in the masonry, near the base of the door. She jumped off the raised steps to look around, and came upon a partially smoothed crack at eye level almost immediately. There was a simple iron key resting in the back of the gap, far too obvious, unless, she supposed, the only occupants were big folk.

Taking the key, she climbed back up and pushed it into the lock. The latch lifted as she turned it and she stepped inside cautiously. The interior of the house was dark, the light from the doorway vanishing quickly as she closed it behind her. Looking around, she could make out nothing at first and made her way to the far side of the room, hands out in front of her, to where she could see the dim outline of fading afternoon sun creeping in at the edges of a curtained window. As she pulled it aside, letting light flood the room, her gaze was drawn to the left and she let out a half strangled cry, staggering back as she tried to bring her shield up, until she stumbled and fell backwards with a crash. In the corner, posed menacingly on an uneven stone, the largest warg she had ever seen bared its fangs at her in an eternal snarl. Her heart was thudding fast and violently in her chest, spurred on by the adrenalin flooding her system. It was dead, of course; a stuffed, mounted trophy, she could see that, but even so… She didn’t move right away, swallowing as she convinced her body to climb to its feet. She growled under her breath and suppressed the urge to take her club to the decoration.

Instead, she looked around. The interior walls were made up of wood panelling, painted dark green, down to the chair rail, with rough but neat stonework stretching down from there to the smooth stone flooring. Much of the rest of the room seemed to be decorated with similarly well displayed, if somewhat gruesome trophies of battle and victory. The main room itself had a fireplace set into each wall, both with a set hearth and a small stockpile of kindle piled neatly beside it. Besides these, for light, there were a couple of slim candle-stands in the far corners and she could see a short file of tapers on the mantelpieces of the fires set aside for lighting them.

Two doors led off from the main room, the one to her left, looking into what appeared to be a study and storage room, with a small desk, cluttered with a variety of documents and notes, in several different hands, as well as a couple of large chests. A notice on the small stool by the chests read out details of several items apparently left inside, and for what purpose they were intended. One set of instructions, penned by a rough but legible hand, and signed under only by ‘Satin’, made mention of some maps and badges he was storing there as a hold-by until he returned, and that they be left alone. Another note, penned in a looping, flowing hand this time, noted that she would much rather prefer that all badges, talismans, and other articles taken from the Enemy be made clean before being stored or set aside; blood smell being hard to remove, and stain even more so. This one was undersigned by one ‘Khima’. Harla let the notes be and glanced about again. At the back of the room there was a sturdy trap door set into the floor, and she lifted it with an effort. A small lamp was set on the top step, with a miniature pair of click stones nestled in the tray. She clicked them a few times over the wick until it lit, then slowly made her way down into the dark.

It turned out to be a moderately stocked food store, though she was disappointed to find that most of the goods available were the sort of long-life, bland but nourishing foods she’d found many mercenaries eating. There were a pair of large kegs, set by with a collection of mugs on a couple of small stools by the taps, as well as several smaller barrels that could easily be brought upstairs, but she gave them all a miss.

Climbing back up, she snuffed the lantern and set it neatly back in its spot on the top step, closing the trap behind her before venturing across to the other room. At the doorway, the flooring became smooth wood, here, and she could see a simple dresser and a plain, functional bed at the other end of the room. A second fireplace was here as well, equally prepared for lighting. She wondered whether it was simply everyone’s job to keep the place ready, or if there was a roster. There was a thick-looking rug spread out beside the bed, between it and the small, four-drawer dresser against the wall; at least one small homely touch, she supposed.

Satisfied with her inspection for now, she set her pack down by the bedroom doorway and began taking off her armour. It was then that she realised what she had not seen anywhere yet, namely a washroom of any description. She was out of fresh clothes, and needed badly to wash everything, surely there would be somewhere she could do some laundry around here; she didn’t fancy hiking all the way down to the river in her skivvies, at any rate. Once the armour was checked and set aside, she stood, shaking out her under clothes and loosening off the ties at the neck of her shirt. After giving it a quick check, she stripped off those as well, changing them for a light shift that normally served as her bedclothes. The remaining laundry-to-be went into her pack, which she hoisted on one shoulder before taking another glance around the interior of the house for a washroom. No luck. With a small sigh, she stepped out the front door and glanced about again, beginning to make her way around the house once searching for any facilities she might have missed. There was a tall banner off to the side of the house, bearing the standard of the Free People’s Army, which fluttered in the breeze.

Many of the houses in the neighbourhood seemed to bear similar flags, and also seemed to serve as almost communal living houses. She’d heard that the army recruitment process wasn’t intensely thorough at the initial level, and that housing like this was assigned and reassigned on a fast and dirty basis as recruits moved in and through. More accomplished soldiers, more successful, or those that proved valiant and loyal to the cause for the long fight often took true possession of the houses they were given, sometimes purchasing the use of them permanently, under their own terms, so long as they fought. She’d heard all of this, of course, but this was the first time she’d actually visited one of the organised neighbourhoods like this. Oh, there were plenty of free, independent houses here and there, but from the top of the hill she could see notably more banner-flying houses then ones without.

As she rounded the back of the house, she was almost surprised to find a taught strung pair of wash lines and set against the back of the house a pump-handle well and basin, along with washboard and stone. Relieved, she set her pack down and reached for the pump handle.

While Harla scrubbed diligently at some of the more stubborn stains and the cool evening breeze tickled at her ankles and crept under her too-light shift, another problem worked its way into her mind, and she wondered whether her luck would hold out to finding a step ladder or stool nearby. The wash lines were too high for her to reach and hang laundry on, set up by big people as they were. Biting one lip, she left the garment she was working on to soak in the basin for a while and ventured back into the house. She was sure she had seen a short ladder down in the basement, for reaching the higher shelves, and intended or not, it would surely serve her purpose.

Sure enough, once she had heaved up the door again and relit the little lantern, her inspection revealed a short set of steps propped in the back corner near the shelves that held cheeses hard enough to wield as weapons. It was another effort to hoist the thing up out of the basement, with one hand still occupied holding her light, but a few minutes later she let the trap door ease down again with a sigh, and carted the steps back out and around to the line. Perfect.

She finished the washing, cursing under her breath at how annoying blood was to get out of fabrics, and began the somewhat arduous process of hanging it out, having to reposition her steps every few pieces. When it was all hung and secured with an assortment of small wooden pins she’d found in a box by the basin, she looked dubiously at the set of steps. They could stay out here, she decided, setting them against the wall of the house. The last of the light had almost faded completely as she drained the basin and made her way back inside, pausing this time to hide the key back in its hole and secure the heavy latch behind her. Right. She rubbed her hands together, warding off the slight chill. It was much warmer inside, of course, but hardly pleasant. Time to get the fire started, she decided, and perhaps prepare a mug of something hot hove along with whatever light meal she could put together.

Bedroom first though; smaller fireplace though it be, it would warm the room nicely while she sorted out dinner and relaxed for the evening. Making her way to the small side room, she set her pack down again by the bed and paused for a moment to shuffle her feet and wiggle her toes in the carpet before turning towards the fireplace. Her brow wrinkled for a moment as she noticed there was no striker on the mantle here, making the one on the mantle in the main room the only one in the house. Just as she stepped through the doorframe, she heard a rough thump against the front door, and the metal on metal sound of the key being worked in the lock. There was a muffled curse, and a brief exclamation of discomfort. Panicked, Harla darted back into the side room, hiding just beyond the doorframe, her back against the wall. People, and here was she in nothing but her nightie, in a house she’d only been invited to once! She shrank down against the wall, not quite daring to glance around the frame again, instinctively making herself small and silent while her heart thundered.

She heard the door open, and the sounds of two bodies stumbling in, before thumping hard against a wall again. A sound distinctly like two people kissing made her steal a quick glance around the doorframe. It was the huntress, Niara, and a man, dressed all in burnished plate armour. She had him pressed against the wall by the door, and seemed to be struggling to unbuckle the straps of his armour, all the while raining swift, breathy kisses across his face and neck. The man, taller than her, seemed equally preoccupied with her, if a little stunned by her swift, fervent behaviour.
“Redheart, you say…” The woman’s voice was low, but Harla could hear the smile, the laughter in it. She grunted, switching to start unbuckling another strap. “Well, brave captain, you’ll have to forgive me, urghh…” The breastplate came free and crashed to the ground beside them. “But it’s not your heart I’m interested in right now.” She followed this with another hail of kissing while the man, apparently more present-minded, fumbled his way to starting a candle by the door, and putting the latch down. Harla ducked back, pressing herself flat to the wall again. Were they really meaning to… just like that? Another thought struck her and twisted her panic to new heights. The only bed in the house was right in front of her, in this little room. She’d be caught for sure, what was she going to do?

A solid thump on the other side of the wall made her start up, staring directly ahead of her. She swallowed, trying not to hear the small gasps and deep masculine whispers that crept around the doorframe to her. A blush was growing in her cheeks from the sounds of their fervent and hurried disrobing less than a foot from her. There was a small growl that Harla was sure came from the woman, and she heard the pair thrust away from the wall again, her partner uttering a small exclamation as he staggered back towards the middle of the main room. Another crash, followed by the woman making a sound somewhere between a giggle and a hungry, triumphant sigh.

Harla still couldn’t believe what she was listening to, and told herself she ought to be blocking her ears, but she didn’t. Instead, she found herself stealing another glance around the doorframe. They had fallen to the floor, sure enough, the captain spread out on his back now against the large bear-skin rug in the centre of the room, with Niara straddling him at the waist. She had succeeded in getting the rest of his armour off, and most of his under clothes as well. Her back was to the door, and Harla could see that she had already loosened off and stripped away her own leggings, left bunched now around one shin, freed completed from the other leg, one boot kicked off roughly to the side. The man was sliding his hands up her back, under the top half of her leather armour, helping her pull that off as well. Niara pulled her breast-band off along with the leathers, sighing as she dropped it to the side and her long hair tumbled free. It extended to the middle of her back in a soft, mousy-blonde wave as she shook it out. The man’s hands slipped away from her back, around towards her chest, and Harla ducked back again, biting her lip.

They were just going to… going to have sex like that, in the middle of the room, where anyone else might come in and see them. Anyone like her, a part of her mind whispered underneath. Just like that! And it seemed like she barely knew the man! Harla’s head dropped for a moment. It wasn’t as though she herself hadn’t done as much before, or things just as bad, but… But it wasn’t the same; Niara was so strong, and confident, so self-sure and determined, surely she would never be reduced to something like that, never end up put in a situation like that. How could she just… just like that, and not care?

She glanced around the doorframe again. The couple were, Harla swallowed, in full swing. Niara had leaned forward and down slightly, her face close to her partner, her hands gripping hard at his chest. The man’s hands were shifting the length of her back, and down to grasp at her behind, which was moving with a quick rhythm on… Harla felt her cheeks burning but she couldn’t tear her eye away now that she’d fixated on the sight. They hadn’t even paused to remove undergarments, Niara instead having pulled her underwear aside enough to allow him entry. The man groaned and murmured something into the woman’s chest as she arched back, shifting her position slightly. She didn’t seem to notice, lost in a hungry rapture of her own, moaning and gasping quietly with each breath. Harla could feel a treacherously hot, damp sensation in her groin and she pressed her legs together more tightly, trying to ignore it. This couldn’t possibly be what she’d thought it was at first. There was no way this was any sort of arrangement, or deal, or pressuring, or expectation… This just looked like Niara, as she always was, taking what she wanted. And she did, really, want it, it seemed, and was enjoying the exchange with a passion, if the trails of excitement slicking the inside of her thighs, and everything about, were anything to go by.

The wet, messy sounds of their coupling drifted about her ears she watched on, unable to look away. Instead, she found one hand creeping unbidden under her slip to lend gentle fingers to the burning heat in her groin. Between that excitement and the blush infusing her cheeks, the warm sensation was spreading over her whole body, making her skin tingle. The dampness of her arousal had already spread to her thighs and she clenched her teeth, mindful of her silence. Even so, her fingers worked more quickly as she watched the pair, the side of her thumb flicking back and forth over her peak as she slipped two fingers insider her entrance, matching their movement to the tempo she was watching. Niara had leaned back now, supporting herself on her hands as they gripped her partner’s ankles. She was moaning as her hips made smooth, fast circles, gazing up at the ceiling.
“Hand,” she gasped briefly, then repeated it after a moment, reaching forward to take one of the man’s hands off her thigh and thrusting it to her groin, guiding it for a few seconds to give him the rhythm. “Mhhmmm, that’s good… Ah, Light! Hahh…” Niara broke off into less articulated gasps and cries as her partner groaned and panted.

Harla felt her legs trembling as the sensation, and the sounds, and everything she was seeing began to overwhelm her. She ducked back, squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her teeth hard as a climax raged through her small body. Fighting down the moan that wanted to rise in her throat, she convulsed in silence as the sensation rippled through every part of her. Eventually her body went loose again, and she became aware of a more pronounced trickle of fluid running down her thighs. She forced herself to breathe slowly, taking deep, quiet breaths as she regained herself.

She was still recovering when she heard Niara’s breathy moans rise to an almost shouted conclusion, crying out several times as her body tried to breathe through the drawn out orgasm. A male voice joined hers moments later, and Harla dared another brief glance. The woman was arched upright, head back, one hand still gripping like claws to her partner’s leg behind her, while the other worked furiously at her groin now. The captain had leaned up, his hands clasped fiercely about her back and his face almost buried in her breasts. His hips thrust upward into her every few seconds in short, sharp motions as his climax spent itself. He relaxed a few moments later, but Niara wasn’t done, starting to move again with a fierce purpose. Her small gasps sounded as though they came through grit teeth as the hand at her groin, and her hips returned to a rapid tempo. She leaned forward again, head against her partners chest while her spare hand supported her, fist against the floor.

“Ughh… Just a… little… ahh… more… Ahhh!!” Her back arched again, upward his time, and Harla could see the rigid force course though her body. She did shout now, crying out in a voice so ragged it could almost be mistaken for pain, and Harla wondered if she was deafening her partner. Eventually she went limp, her body collapsing down onto the man as she relaxed and stretched with a luxuriant ease. Harla ducked back behind the doorframe, still more than a little shocked at the woman, and herself, for that matter. What had she been thinking? Not to mention, the dampness had caught her slip in a few places now. She shrugged to herself and began to dab herself dry with it as she listened to the sounds of the others shifting in the main room.

One of them was on their feet, and she could hear the sounds of redressing. No metal though, so probably the huntress. She heard the woman sigh happily, passing a comment about how much she’d needed that. The remark made Harla blink, then shake her head. There was the sound of the man getting to his feet, and beginning to collect and do up his armour again.
“Come on now, oh Captain, the sun’s down and we have a mission to get to. The others will be waiting for us soon if we don’t head on quickly. Finish getting that armour strapped on, I’ve just got to get some…” Harla frozen as the voice approached. She could see the shadow of the woman paused, one hand on her hip, just shy of the doorway. Surely the sudden hammering in her chest was going to give her away, even if the woman didn’t step forward and see her.
“Hmm, never mind, Satin will have some on him.” The shadow retreated again, and, after a few more minutes Harla heard the door open, and the light from the candle disappeared. The door shut, the latch dropped into place behind the pair, and Harla let out a long breath, sinking to her knees with relief in the darkness.

After a moment she got to her feet again, calmer, and finished cleaning herself up quickly, then set about lighting the fire in the bedroom. Once it was crackling nicely, she paused in front of it, biting her lip for a moment. There was no door to this side room, but it wasn’t like there was likely to be another unexpected visitation, was there? Besides which, after what had just happened, it hardly seemed risky at all. She quickly whisked off her slip, giggling quietly in spite of herself as she stood naked before the fire, carefully drying the garment of its recently acquired damp patches.

Once it was dry, and she had pulled it back over her head, she ventured down to the cellar, but discovered nothing any more tempting than her initial investigation had turned up. She retreated to the bedroom with a small wedge of cheese, some hard bread, and a couple small, dried apples. It wasn’t much of a feast, exactly, but she couldn’t fault it for being efficient, simple, and sufficient for the purpose; rather like the owner of the house, and likely, like the other mercenaries who frequented the place, she would wager.

The bed, at least, was large for her standard and quite comfortable. She turned down the cover, letting the warmth spreading through the room infuse the sheets as the night deepened. As she sat on the end of the bed, warming herself by the fire, and chewing determinedly on the hard food, she found herself wondering what sort of a mission Niara was on, out there somewhere in the middle of the night, fighting. With a flick, she tossed the gnawed cores of the apples onto the fire, causing a faint apple scent to fill the room slowly. The woman had tried to tell her, once, that she, Harla, was as much a mercenary as any of them. She had meant it as a compliment, she was sure, to a doubting little hobbit, unsure of herself, and it was true in one way, she supposed. She lived by her club and her shield, yes, doing work for coin, but… There were mercenaries, like Niara, and that captain, and this mysterious ‘Satin’, who went out, and had Missions together, and then… then there was her; just Harla, just trying to get by. It wasn’t the same, not really.

She watched the fire for another hour or so, then banked it down and climbed into the bed, snuggling the cover up around her. As she drifted towards sleep, her mind was drawn again to the evening’s experience. She could still scarcely believe that she had done as she had; touching herself so, right there, watching them while they were… Decency told her that the word she ought to put to it was ‘making love’ or something like that, but she was quite certain that love had nothing whatsoever to do with what she’d witnessed. Rutting would probably be a much closer phrase. Coupling, then; while they were busily coupling. What she’d seen aside, what did that say about her, she wondered?

There was no denying, however; what had happened out in the main room had, because Niara had wanted it to, and no other reason beyond that. She had wanted it that way, and she wasn’t embarrassed, or ashamed, or anything beyond completely confident about it. Before tonight, she would have hardly believed a story like it, but now… Even so, why should she feel any of those things at all? It was a different world, a different life, and Harla knew that she wasn’t like that. The thought that kept coming back as sleep took hold, though, whispered ‘could she be?’

The next morning, Harla opened her eyes as the sun made its way into the room, and her bladder made its demands known. Fortunately, an urgent look around revealed a small privy outside the house, on the far side that she hadn’t gotten to the previous night. That taken care off, she returned to the bedroom warm up again, glad of the warm carpet under her feet. The early morning was quite chill this time of year. After a quick glance at her armour, she let it lie for the moment, and set about having a light breakfast first. After that, she ventured outside again to check on her laundry, and found it to be dry, but cold and tinged with the morning dew. She left it in the sun.

The fire in the bedroom had almost burned out completely and she extinguished the remnants, kneeling down to begin cleaning it out carefully. There was an ash bin just by the fire place, and a small shovel for her to use, as well as a small pile of partially burnt wood in a rack on the other side, into which she placed the salvageable pieces, promising herself that she would use the wood from there first next time. Once the grate had been cleared out neatly, she re-laid the fire for starting again, for the next person to use it, until it was all just as she’d found it the evening before. When it was all done, she stood, dusting off her hands and nodding to herself.

It occurred to her that she really ought to let them know she’d been here, and eaten some of their food. She’d learned to read passably along the way, back in the Shire, but the connection from that into actually writing for herself had never quite come about, not least for lack of any opportunity to practice. Even so, she returned to the table in the room across the house, just in case there was something she could do, or find out. There was a new letter sitting on its own in the centre of the desk and Harla stared at it for a moment. She was sure it hadn’t been there after Niara had left last night. There was only a moment’s hesitation before she picked it up and opened it carefully.

The small note was written in the same beautifully elegant and graceful hand that she’d seen in other notes signed by ‘Khima’, and indeed, a quick glance revealed that this one, too, bore the same signature. Harla blushed crimson as she read over it.

“Dear Niara,” the note began, “I passed by the house during the night five days since last we spoke. Amongst other things, I noticed a young hobbit sleeping here. She appeared to be carrying a deal of heavy equipment with her; was this the young guardian of whom you spoke? If so, we will need to arrange a meeting at some point, so I can fill her in on how we all take care of the house. I would have simply spoken with her while I was here, however, she seemed to be sleeping quite soundly (though that could be said of the sleeping habits of almost all Halfling folk), and I saw no need to wake her for such a simple thing.

To the young hobbit girl, if you have read this far, then a word to the wise; it is not always prudent to read letters not addressed to you. Even so, I look forward to our meeting, if you are indeed the one Niara has mentioned, as I suspect. I also suspect your washing will be dry by the time you’ve finished reading this.”

It was signed, as the others, simply ‘Khima’. Harla carefully folded it back up and placed it on the desk again, backing away. There was something slightly creepy about reading words addressed to you, in a letter that wasn’t. She wasn’t superstitious at all; they were just ink marks on a page, but it still unnerved her.

What was worse was that it was, most likely, right. She returned to the bedroom to retrieve her pack and headed outside. Around the back, she checked her washing again, and as she’d expected, the extra time in the sun had burned off the early dew and the cold. Taking them down was no easier then hanging the garments up had been, and she struggled with shifting the steps about again and again as she retrieved them. Once everything was folded away into her pack, and the little wooden pins were placed neatly back in their box, Harla took a long look at the steps. No. They could stay out here by the line; she was not going to wrestle the things back into the house and down to the basement. If anyone complained, she’d apologise, if it got damaged, somehow, she’d even replace it; it just wasn’t worth the effort. Instead, she returned to the house one last time, long enough to put on a fresh set of underclothes and pull on her armour, shrugging her shoulders until it was comfortable. That done, she hoisted the pack onto her shoulders again and left the house, letting the latch drop down behind her.

It was a pleasant enough place, she supposed, as she walked down the hill, back towards the East-west road, which led out towards the Lone-lands. Once you got past the trophies that decorated the house, if was far more pleasant than many of the others places she’d bunked for a night or two. Embarrassing situations aside, she could see herself returning some day, if the mysterious, letter-writing ‘Khima’ didn’t find her first, of course.

The neighbourhood itself was certainly pleasant enough, that much made her happy at least. She nodded to herself, then glanced up to her right as she strolled towards the village entrance, at another of the flagged houses. A woman in a brightly dyed waistcoat and pants was standing in front of the flag, wearing a broad-brimmed hat with large, flashy feather in one side of it. She seemed to be making a great ceremony of presenting a young hobbit standing across from her with a similar, if slightly smaller hat. Harla walked on. Pleasant, if a little strange.

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