[Bêthberry]

Finian, still surrounded by lingering morning mists, drew his bow to his ear and aimed the arrow at a shaggy bale of straw. A finger of dawn dropped upon it and it shimmered, transforming into a great golden dragon with translucent wings of aurora beauty. Yellow flames, flecked with orange and streaked with crimson, burst from its fang-ridden mouth, burning the innocent town below, destroying the wooden huts. Pillars of fire erupted from the dried thatch. Children screamed. Women and men dived into the safety of the water. But a lone man -- nay, it was a young boy not yet into full manhood -- stood his ground: he alone dared face the golden wyrm. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled the bow string taut, drawing the arrow to his ear. The dragon soared through the sky as a burning star alight with dawn"s fire, radiant with brilliant liht save for a gaping hole below the heart. The arrow leaped from the bow with a shrill cry and plunged itself into the black hole. With an agonized roar, the dragon toppled from the sky to drop into the lake below. Bubbles rose to the lake"s smooth surface, the agitated water hissed and steamed, and the --

"I would think the innkeeper of the Vineyard Tavern would be behind the bar instead of staring at a bale of straw as if it meant to kill you," said Rochadan, a smile drifting about his face.

Finian jerked his head away and blinked at the stable master. Rochadan and his father had been good friends, and since his father had died in Smaug's attack, the stable master had helped him establish a new Vineyard Tavern. The boy stared at the stable master, looking into his rugged face, his deep brown eyes. Then he grinned, and said, "Then the guests are indeed foolish to stir this early about."

Rochadan flashed a grin and then said, "Ædhral was looking for your sister, Ærosylle. She is not in the Tavern."

Blast it. The girl was always disappearing. "I will find her soon," he said, rolling his eyes. Drat. Patrons came first. They always came first in the business, his father had told him. Why did she always have to disappear? Finian was sure it was because she knew he could not drop everything and rush to find her. She liked to be alone, doing her strange antics, thinking her strange thoughts.

Still pondering whether he should find her or not, Finian spared a glance at the newly built and refurnished Vineyard Tavern. He ran his fingers through his hair and nodded with a broad smile at the sturdy building. His father had been Innkeeper before him in old Esgaroth but he perished in a spout of Smaug's flame when wyrm had descended onto Lake-Town, leaving him as the new innkeeper and the sole provider for his younger sister, Ærosylle. Finian shook his head: that had been a fleeting year ago. It had been a busy time, with many maimed and injured. Bêthberry the healer had helped and then, as an old family friend, stayed on to attend to his sister, but the illness was a strange one which seemed beyond healing at times. Yet Bethberry stayed on, becoming a kindly ear for any at the Inn and offering advice and herbal remedies to those who needed it, and becoming a part of the new Vineyard Tavern.

The Vineyard Tavern was not large, but neither was it small. The wood was light pine, with a thatch roof. The Tavern's sign, with a cluster of grapes painted on the top left corner and elves rafting upon a river in the bottom right hand corner, dangled from a projecting beam of wood. His father, he hoped, would be proud of him. Forgoing for a small time the search for his sister, Finain, with another small sigh, marched into the inn, and looked about him. Not many people were gathered in the Common Room but that was to be expected. The people were busy planting for the season. Mainly the men were traders dropping by for a pint of ale or a goblet of wine before continuing their trip down the river. Then they would return for a few days, rafts laden with wealth, seeds, produce and news.

A strong smell of spice and roasted meat wafted through the common room and Finian, with a smile, dashed to the kitchen and poked his head through the door. Ædrhal was busy stirring a great iron pot. Ædrhal towered; her hair a loose braid down her back. She heard his clatter and, turning her head, said, "We are having a bit of eggs and bacon, Finian."

"We have not had bacon for a very long time," said Finian with a grin.

She merely smiled at him.

"We do not have as many hungry guests this morning as we normally do," said Finian -- not like when my father was the innkeeper -- "but we have enough." He nodded his head, a half smile about his lips.

Leaving the kitchen, he stationed himself behind the bar, talking to the occasional customer who ordered a frothing mug of ale. The thought of his sister nagged at his mind. He should go out and look for her?but the patrons of the Inn needed to be satisfied first.