[Envinyatar]

Fen Shepherdspurse

The door to the Inn swung open for a moment. Fen looked up, he could hear Butterbur’s voice somewhere a short distance before him, but saw only the large dark blur of him against the bright white light of day which framed his ample outline. The common room was still dim, only a few of the shutters had been opened and just a single lamp in the center of the area had been lit. Fen’s eyes narrowed at the bright light that now flooded in. He could hear the Innkeeper speaking to someone and the calm low voice of someone still unseen give answer. It was someone tall who followed closely after Butterbur; someone very tall, in fact. Golden haired. The daylight behind threw a nimbus of radiance about the person’s head causing Fen to squint harder as he tried to pick the features out in the darkened face.

The door to the Inn closed. Fen spluttered in his mug of ale as the features of the woman came into focus. No, not just some woman . . . Blast that brainless barkeep! Butterbur had brought one of the Elves to speak with him! Fen had little liking for the Fair Folk. He’d heard too often they could pry behind your eyes, to see if your mouth was telling lies. He swallowed hard at the short sword she wore so easily against her hip. He could almost feel the keenness of its sharp blade against his neck. His eyes darted about the room looking for an easy escape should this ‘interview’ not go well.

Butterbur was hurrying the Elf along, drawing nearer to where Fen stood. Her fair face looked up often as the Innkeeper nattered on, grey eyes coming round often to rest coolly on Fen. A thin bead of sweat broke out on his upper lip; his face turned a whiter shade of pale at her imminent presence. Fen jammed his hands hard into the pockets of his breeches to keep her from seeing them shake. He pinched his thigh hard through the thin material of one of the pockets, the pain of it driving away his rising fear. Thoughts refocused, he counseled himself with the consideration that perhaps he needn’t tell any lies if he doled out the truth with care.

By the time the two reached him, Fen was looking quite distraught . . . with a pale grey skin, ragged demeanor, of one who has seen something quite horrible.

‘Here he is, m’Lady,’ said Butterbur. ‘The poor blighter what saw such grisly sights as I was telling you.’

Grisly sights?! frowned Fen. What’s he been telling her?

Silrûth appraised him silently as the Innkeeper spoke. Fen, a moment of inspiration coming upon him, began blubbering; his breath coming in sobbing gasps. His shaking hands flew up to knuckle the tears from his eyes as he let out a desperate wail. ‘Oh, Lady! I’m so glad the King has sent you to give us poor folk some help. There’s wild nasty beasties of some sort as has come to bedevil us. Last night . . .’ And here he seemed overcome with genuine grief . . . ‘last night the Whittleworth’s ‘n their hands was cut down . . . murdered most foul by a ravening band of evil fiends. Killed ever one of ‘em. Children, too, so I heard.’ He shook his head at the thought of it, wiping his now dripping nose on a begrimed rag he’d fetched out of his pocket. He looked up at her with his red rimmed eyes. ‘You and your friends have come to pertect us, right?’ he asked in a fawning manner. ‘Afore they get to us, right here in Bree and kill us all as we sleep in our beds . . .’