[piosenniel]

‘Shut that door and bar it tight, Volondil. I doubt there will be any more of us stopping by the Inn tonight.’ Olo pulled out a chair and sank down into it. He pulled off his ragged gloves, rubbing his hands together briskly to get some feeling and warmth back into them. His snow dusted feet he propped on a chair he had pulled close, watching as Volondil barred the door. There had been too many strange, shadowy happenings of late, and neither Ranger wished to be pulled from their rest tonight to face them.

A three tap knock at the Common Room door brought them to attention. Volondil strode quickly to it, his ear against the wood. ‘It’s me.’ came the faint voice from without. The Cook, noting that they had arrived by the finding of the coneys laid out on the kitchen counter top for her, had brought them a small pot of stew, and a loaf of crusty bread.

Olo took the lid from the stew, and waved it over the savory steam rising from it, inhaling the aroma appreciatively. The Cook beamed as she watched him do it. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I almost forgot this.’ From the spacious pocket of her apron, she brought forth a small bottle of good, red wine and two clean glasses. ‘Here’s something from the Innkeeper to help wash it all down.’

Volondil gave a wink and a smile to the Cook, causing her to blush furiously. She dropped a small curtsy to the two Rangers, and quickly left the room, giggling like a silly young girl.

Silence, of a sort, ensued as the two tucked into their meal. Their bellies satisfied, they sat back, enjoying a last glass of wine.

It was at that inopportune moment that Bullroarer’s stomach chose to protest its own empty condition. The scent of the food and the sounds of spoons scraped over emptying bowls proved too much for it. It started as a small grumbliness, then worked its way up to a full rumble.

The Rangers stood quickly, overturning their chairs as they rose and drew their blades. Their gazes fixed on the area of the room from which the sounds had come. ‘What kind of animal is that?’ whispered Olo. They advanced toward the stack of barrels and crates, one to each side of it, sword in the attack position.

‘I don’t know,’ returned Volondil, circling to the right of the stack, as Olo took the left, ‘but it sounds big, and dangerous.’

Only the soft scuff of their boots and feet heralded the nearness of their approach. They had reached the corners of the stack, and Volondil was poised to thrust his longer blade behind it to flush out the unseen intruder from the shadows . . .