After telling Lizbeth in Combe, I thought I'd best walk to Bree and let them know the troubles. Barliman Butterbur, a good friend and always a listening ear, needed to know what happened in Archet, and he'd be able to get the word out to thems what needed to hear it. Brigand trouble spreads like wildfire, and Bree-folk'd be glad o' the warning.

So, I sets off on foot, the dusty road stretching out before me. Arrived at the Prancing Pony, the usual smell of roasting meat and dark ale a happy welcome. Barliman was behind the bar, washing the tankards. I tells him everything, the brigands, the fires, all of it.

Barliman nodded, his eyes hard. "This is ill news, Brenin," he says. "Ill news indeed." He promised to send word to the Watch, and to keep his ears open for any whispers of the brigands. He's a good man, Barliman, a good man.

I had a pint or two o' Blind Troll while I spoke, just to steady me nerves.