Once she wandered. She wallowed in pity and simpered. She wandered wide and far. Not knowing where or whence, she came into the village. Shambles, brambles and dirt. Not much of a village, not much of anything. She wearied, she fretted. She left a wake of sorrow where ever. The villagers saw her and shied away. They knew not why she came to them, they only knew she wouldn't leave. They could tell she would be staying, it was that type of village. She sought the local watering hole, the pub, where there would be work. There's always work in pubs. There's always a pub. Washing and cooking, serving and cleaning. She knew she would be able to earn a meal. Room and board. Wandering men, working women always seek out the pubs. She would need coin again before she wandered, alone. She swallowed the heavy air that lay over the village. She knew it would take a while this time. No heavy trade through this berg. Not until the spring when the wool would be carded and spun. The wheat threshed. The grapes made into wine. Traders don't travel in winter. Only wanderers, thieves, lost souls, minstrels and witches. No, she wouldn't think that. She just needed to get to warmer climates, summer and traders. She would take her fear with her. She would not, should not, will not let this village succumb and deny her. She will endure. Swallowing again, trudging, bringing up the dust of the road, she sees the inevitable sign of life of the pub. Men smoking and spitting outside. Lazing against the walls, sad faces and lonely bodies. She would make the coin. One way or another her wanderings would continue.