[Birdland]

“STOP RUSHING ME, YOU NINNYHAMMER! I’M NOT ONE OF YOUR FILTHY SHEEP TO BE HERDED, YOU KNOW!”

All conversation stopped at the sound of the high, screeching voice outside the tavern. Dwarin, who had been rushing to serve the Elven lady, abruptly turned about and fortressed himself behind the bar, studiously polishing pewter mugs that already gleamed.

The little collie at Pio’s feet leapt up with a yelp and a growl and scampered behind the chair, peeking out from the safety of her Elven cloak, as if it’s magical properties of camouflage might aid him.

The door swung open with a thud, and the there appeared on the doorstep the tiniest Hobbit that Pio had ever seen. She may have been all of three feet tall when in her prime, but age had curved her spine and thrust her head forward in an attitude of eternal vigilance. Her face was a wrinkled and red as a winter apple, but her eyes were still sharp, bright, and all-seeing. She was dressed all in black widow’s weed, with a stiff, starched mop cap covering her thinning, but still curling hair. A stout cane, made from the branch of the hawthorn, with a shine silver handle and tip, preceded her into the room. Amaranthas Bolger had arrived.

She looked around the crowded inn, (worse for wear after the visit of the Wargs), and glared down the various patrons with a look of utter disdain. “Hmph!“, she sniffed. “That dwarf has certainly let the place go to seed. That’s what comes from selling good establishments to outsiders, instead of keeping them in the family where they belong! Dwarin, a goblet of your best wine! Local! And none of your slipping water in it, you bristly ol’ skinflint!”

Dwarin’s face turned as red as his adversary, but he swallowed any comments, knowing that his first volley would only lead to even more aggressive counter-attack, at even higher decimals. He poured the goblet and silently signaled Parin to carry it to the table.

Elfred led the old hobbit over to the table, and said in a loud, clear voice, “Grandmama Amaranthas, this is the Elven lady I have told you about! She would dearly love to hear from you some of your tales of the old days!”

“DON’T SHOUT, CHUCKLEHEAD! I CAN HEAR YOU PERFECTLY WELL!” Amaranthas looked up at Pio and stated without preamble “So, come to hear my tales of “Mad Cami“, have you? Knew her, I suppose. Oh, don’t look so surprised . Stands to reason. She was always one to take off with the likes of Elves and those Wild Northern Men, instead of staying at home as any decent Hobbit lass would. I’ve heard the tales of Miss Goodchilde my entire life, and can only be thankful that she was no blood kin to ME, else us Bolgers might all be taking off into the Wilderness like those Mad Baggins or Goodchildes. “

Amaranthas took a seat in the comfy nook lately vacated be Elfred, and scanned the assortment of pastries laid out on the table with a sharp, bird-like tilt of the head, before selecting one and popping it her mouth. She washed it down with a long draw of the wine, wiped her lips on a lace hankerchief she pulled from her sleeve, and eyeing the plate again, said, “Well, speak up! What would you like to know?“

Anything you can tell me at all, Amaranthas…”