Elfred squinted as his eyes began to adjust to the comfortable gloom of the Prancing Pony. Normally the noisy, smokey ale-house would have delighted him, but not tonight. He had walked too far, with too heavy a burden on his heart, to be cheered by the familar faces at the Pony.
Even Nop, who would normally have trotted off to the kitchen to eat his fill of scraps and get his ears scratched by the kitchen maids, could not be cheered tonight. He crouched, silent and sad, at his master's feet, with his head resting on his paws.
But the crowd tonight at the Pony seemed to buzzing with some undetermined purpose. Elfred could hear the words, "wargs", "wolves", "weapons", and "adventures" flying through the air, and most of people at the inn seemed to be involved in deep discussions, (and a few outright arguments), about any and all of these subjects. Something had been decided, apparently, but as yet Elfred had no idea what.
He spotted the quiet, friendly face of Nariah clearing a table, and flashed a sad, tired smile at her greeting. "Would ye kindly fetch some hot, mulled wine for these old bones, dearie. And can ye tell me if Master Furbarrow is in the Pony tonight?"
Nariah smiled back and pointed towards a table to the rear, then went to fetch Elfred his wine. The Hobbit then wove his way through the crowd, avoiding the knees and elbows of the Big Folk through long practice. Finally he stood before Gaddy Furbarrow, and tipped his hat in a respectful manner to the sheepraiser, as befitted a Hobbit who owned such vast flocks. Or rather, used to own such vast flocks.
"Master Furbarrow, sir, I searched the hills this entire day, and I found them. That is, I found what was left of them. Out of the entire flock of 200 odd, I'm afraid to tell ye that there be only fifteen left. Those last missing twenty were all slain, as well as Gaffer Heathertoes Tig. I'm that sorry to have to tell ye."
[ December 07, 2002: Message edited by: Birdland ]
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