Derufin was on the other side of the gable from the ladder. The sun was hot already and he had removed his shirt in an attempt to keep cool, and tied a bandana about his brow. His hammer and crowbar hung from the leather work belt he’d picked up in the stable, as well as a length of measuring cord, and a fat piece of chalk.
Chastised by Cook, he had made his way to the stables, as she directed, to see to the horses. Uien, it appeared, had already taken care of their needs earlier in the day, though, and all he need do was refill their water trough in the exercise pen and add a few forks full of hay to the holders at either end. Falowik and the Elf were nowhere in sight when he finished. And with a resigned sigh, he strapped on the tool belt from the stable's workbench and carried the ladder to the northeastern end of the Inn.
The roof deck on the northern side looked fairly intact on cursory inspection. But that on the south side had a large, sagging area. And when he knelt and pried off the wooden shingles, he could see the deteriorating wood of the substructure. Damaged by rain this past winter and spring, the dampness had crept into the wood and cause a spongy rot to take hold.
He had just loosed all the shingles, and set them aside for inspection later, and was in the midst of measuring the wood needed for the patch, when he heard faint voices from the north side, and the sound of feet moving along the wooden shingles . . .
[ August 30, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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