Vinca Bunce, Cook for the Green Dragon, was done for the evening. Buttercup and Ruby had finished the dishes, and hung the pots and pans on their pegs, ready for another round of cooking tomorrow. They had taken off their aprons and said their good-nights. Tomorrow would be another early, busy day for them, and they were bound for their beds and sleep.
Cook took off her own apron and hung it on the peg by the door as she entered the Common Room. One of the Big Folk (scraggly-bearded she noted, with a silent tsk!) was regaling the few Hobbits there with a tale. Cook drew herself an ale and sat down to listen.
‘Ah, so another warrior has straggled in – refugee from the Great War.’ She looked about at the Hobbits sitting open-mouthed.
‘Tolman! Halibert! Shut those mouths of yours. The flies’ll be swarming toward you if you don’t.’
Cook turned toward the newcomer and offered to refill his tankard. ‘Your name, good sir. I don’t believe I caught it.’ She nudged Halibert away from the Man’s leg as her tried to steal a peek at the leg wound the Orc had given him.
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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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