[mark12_30]

Lîs, also called Lîn

The solid dwarf marched up the road toward the Inn. Ornate dwarf-armor and heavy chain-mail flashed from under a blue cloak and tasseled hood; heavy boots thudded on the road. Axe handles poked out from various places. A heavy pack was carried easily, and bushy eyebrows hid brown eyes deep-set in a swarthy face.

After a long and weary journey, and many suspicious stares and distant nods, the dwarf approached the Green Dragon with mixed feelings. The food was a pleasant thought. The unpleasant thought was the Ale. It had been a relief not to have to drink it while on the road, but now, in order to maintain the disguise, it had to be done. Beard fixed in place, axe in hand, the dwarf nodded gruffly at the hobbit-lass that stood in the doorway, growling in a deep voice, "There now, lass, no need to come between a bone-weary traveller and the Inn's hospitality. Move along! This dwarf is hungry, thirsty, weary, and in none too fond of a mood. Inkeeper! Your finest ale!"

Several elves looked up, and carefully looked down again, on their very best behavior.

"I beg your pardon, I meant no offense, " said the hobbit-lass, stepping aside.

"None taken. But it's a long walk from the Blue Mountains to your Shire, and I'm thirsty. Ale! Ale! And what might your name be, lass?" The dwarf poked an axe-handle at the hobbit-lass.

"Hawthorne Brandybuck. And yours?"

"Lîn at your service. I'm travelling to Erebor; I've had more than enough of all those Blue Mountain elves-- Ale! Durin's beard, where is that Innkeeper?"

"Have you no patience whatsoever, Master Lîn?" asked the innkeeper quietly, coming around in front of the dwarf and holding up a large mug of foaming ale.

"None," growled the dwarf, grudgingly taking the mug of ale. Hawthorne watched as the dwarf raised the mug, sniffed at it, and then hesitated.

"It's the finest ale in the Westfarthing, " said the Innkeeper defensively.

"Bah, " growled the dwarf, and then with one more deep breath, downed the entire mug in one draught. The Innkeeper immediately took the mug, refilled it, and returned with it. The dwarf took several more deep breaths, and once again drained the mug, this time with a resounding belch and some spilled ale. The Innkeeper sighed, muttering "At least dwarves always pay, " and refilled the mug. Numerous elves and hobbits looked on with expressions of distaste.

A third time, the mug was drained, and this time more of it spilled down the dwarf's beard. But the dwarf did not try to wipe it off the beard; the ale ran freely down the dwarf's cloak til it reached the armor, where it was brushed at with a gloved hand. "Ahh. Now-- roast, and roots, and cabbage." The dwarf sat down at a nearby tab, and pushed the ale-mug away with a sense of finality and relief. "And a glass of red wine." Lîn looked around the room. There were men, elves, and hobbits, all very sociable and (except the elves) welcoming, but Lîn felt no desire to mingle. The disguise was much easier to maintain at a distance.