Dwarin had been called away on some bit of Dwarvish business, or so he had said to Piosenniel when he cleared away the remains of her guests' drinks and plates. He had looked her over, taking in the way she sat at ease in her chair, noting how even at her most relaxed there was an air of alertness with which her eyes swept the room, and how her body shifted in the chair imperceptibly as the possibility of brewing danger or threat was noticed.
He'd asked her if she had any knowledge of Inns and their running. She laughed merrily, dark glimmerings playing in her eyes, as she recalled 'jobs' she had taken to fill her oft lean purse in her wanderings.
'I have some experience with such things. Other than just my forays into ale and wine tasting, and my skill at draughts and darts, that is.' She winked impishly at him. 'Why do you ask?'
He needed someone to step in for a while, and she said she would be glad to. It would be a pleasant diversion between voyages on the Lonely Star. And so that was how she found herself ordering spirits for the Inn on the one hand and serving drinks to the patrons on the other.
She had just delivered some flagons of the Dragon's finest to a table of passing Dwarves, when she overheard a man speaking of the siege of Gondor.
'Man of Gondor! Marithorn, is it not? Please, I have friends in Minas Tirith. What news do you have of the city? How has the foul shadow fallen now on fair Gondor?'
[ December 19, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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