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Old 12-07-2006, 05:13 PM   #407
Mänwe
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Limaris Arahad had been with the company of Rangers for almost a full year, a time in which he had time to reflect upon his decision to leave his mother in Linhir and seek a life in the service of Gondor. What he had wanted to seek and had sought so far was the focus of his thoughts. Apart from the obvious military skills he had acquired and was still acquiring was eclipsed in comparison to the interaction of an individual with others.

A rather deep subject he thought to be pondering on an early morn. However it was this particular skill which he had yearned for the most. Company with other Rangers although friendly was for the best of times serious to the extreme; something he understood given the task appointed to the company. It was however only after camp was made and the pickets set that conversation was allowed, and even then when in the field, regulations required it to be muted.

‘Evening boredom’ and ‘Shire’ was the greatest paradox he had ever known, for over the months he had been observing the borders of Buckland and the few times that he had been tasked with scouting the areas close to dwellings Hobbits were a great fan of evening camaraderie and he would often hear their rich voices carried through door and window of the popular inns.

It was in reflection however the greatest test of self discipline perhaps even torture to observe a folk existing comfortably in their houses, while he remained under the stars on hard ground come all weather.

This train of thought and his own self justification oft provoked the stern and quick rebuke from the company officer who reminded him of his position and task and blamed it on his age. He was inexperienced to have been made a fledged Ranger, however it was his particular skill as a tracker that had caught the attention of the command and landed him here following the convoluted course of the Stockbrook.

The sound of a splash and crunch of grit wrenched him out of his reverie and he noticed that he had strayed into the shallows of the brook. Wandering or ‘ill-discipline’ as Bregil, commanding would say, often meant he went astray, to the annoyance of his comrades also, and something that time in the field would eliminate.

Back to his senses his training began to restart, young eyes scanning the ground ahead the small but distinguishable signs of animals having visited the brook, a foxes tracks leading away from the water, coney depressions in the soft ground where they had rested the previous day. The morning was a blend of greys and blues, accompanied by the gentle trickling sound and silver glittering of the water. Noting the angle of the sun he quickened his pace leaving in his wake the destruction of a myriad of habitats too small even for his eyes to see.

Leaving the water’s edge to avoid his prints forming in the soft ground that might betray his presence to a visitor in the future his mind fell upon his orders. The course he was taking was a wide and ever winding path inwards till he was on the outskirts of one of the Shire’s largest villages, Stock. His was on a routine patrol of the land directly within the border patrol set by other masters, and one that would require him to enter the village, which was one of four his company were given specific watch.

His orders when he had entered the village were to observe, remaining impassive and inconspicuous. However if needed he might approach the local inhabitants and gently inquire as to the goings on over the past few weeks, a precaution in case even the eagle eyed watch of the company had missed any trespassers.

Having made steady progress for an hour along the brook he noticed that the surrounding vegetation began to clear, and grasses became more prominent amongst the reeds and water loving flowers that thrived within a few metres either side of its banks. It was a few minutes later that he noticed the road, the Causeway it was named, it was one of two main roads that crossed through Stock and came from further north by the Brandywine bridge.

The name sparked off a snippet of its history, something he had picked up on his wanderings. It was said to be an alteration of the Elvish Baránduin which translated meant ‘golden brown river’, and it had become Hobbit custom in previous years to be called Bralda-hîm or ‘heady ale’.

A name which made a slight smile split his lips; he’d thought of a perfect idea, the Golden Perch Inn would be the best place in the area to seek out any knowledge, for it was widely known its ale was the finest in the East farthing. With that pleasant thought in mind his dulled spirits flared and his step quickened slightly, remaining off the road however and amongst the vegetation to provide himself with some cover, of late you could not be overly cautious. However again he was lost in thought and the surroundings became nothingness compared with the thought of good ale.

Tracking the road for a short distance he came to an intersection with the Stock road and the ground which had been rising gently as he neared the village peaked as a small hill by which the Inn was built. It’s large out sign welcoming travellers and promising good company and a warm hearth for the weather was cool enough to warrant more than the average number of layers a man would wear.

On first inspection it was a distended building, with various roofs at different heights, no doubt to accommodate for its varying height of patrons. He had paused just off the road and noticed that some of the inhabitants of the village making their way to and from chores were glancing at him. He’d not wanted to draw a great deal of attention on his entrance, Shire folk were at times quick to frighten and judge visitors with strange behaviour. Again the small smile spread across his features at the image of a group of the more stout Bucklanders running him out of the village.

Lurching forward he put a warming smile on his face and strode toward the Inn entrance. Stooping through the heavy weathered door he was confronted by a large open room, filled with tables and benches, stools and the bustling and babbling of its customers. No eyes turned, no conversations stopped on his entrance, visitors from all over were frequent and not to be concerned over; his nose was immediately assaulted with various smells, of food and strong ale, leather and light smoke from pipes and the large fireplace that dominated the room.

Pausing briefly as if he were fumbling with his cloak clasp he scanned the room.
Large ale casks and the counter to his right with a door behind, the clatter of dishes rose above the chatter, men, elves and of course Hobbits were present. The atmosphere was friendly and folk were shifting seats to converse with others, holding the cloak in his hand he cast it over his shoulder and slowly made his way to the counter, careful to avoid hitting table corners and stools with occupants lest he spill tankards.

Standing at the bar he was pleased that he had appeared as just another traveller though was well aware that his garb may well have attracted glances as he made his way to the counter, he had left his weapons with the company camp but had kept back a small dagger which was at his felt, a common enough implement for a man but still…

Besides it felt good again to be among others, and he breathed deeply, a contented sigh escaping him. Leaning on the counter with his elbow he gave the counter a slight knock.

“Inn keeper?”

One hand went to his money pouch concealed beneath his clothing, and his eyes flicked round the room once more, looking for a likely start of conversation with the local populace.
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