[Envinyatar]

In the distance the lights from the inn glinted softly in the falling dusk. It was a welcoming sight against the growing dusk. Hithadan stopped for a moment beneath the cottonwoods which grew along this little stretch of the brook. With a oomph of tiredness he leaned against the slender beech branch he’d fashioned into a walking stick, balancing on it and his right leg to take a bit of pressure from his left. He chided himself both for the injury to his leg and the careless actions that had promoted it.

‘That’s what comes of too much drink, you knot-head!’ he said aloud to a small bird peeping down at him from the branches of a tree. The bird, startled by his voice and the large presence of the man beneath him, twittered and flew off. The Ranger’s laughter followed after the bird’s seeming protest. And he called a bit louder, as if to apologize. ‘Not you little one! It’s this clumsy two-foot here who is the knot-head!’ There had been a number of rounds of drinks several days ago at the Pony in Bree; some bought by him, some by others. Tongues had loosened amidst the ale-driven camaraderie and some very interesting pieces of news had been boasted about. Doings especially from the south and east were valuable bits, no matter how small. To be passed on and sifted through with other news from other places by those whose task it was to keep the larger picture in mind.

At any rate, he’d drunk a drink, or two even, beyond his normal and had not been as nimble footed as he’d needed when he left the inn. A scattering of loose rock and pebbles had caught him off guard; and to be short, he'd fallen. Rather ungracefully so; twisting his left ankle and putting a rather nasty gash in his lower leg. He’d managed it this far, but now his leg and ankle were swollen fat as a Bree summer-sausage, and just as darkish red as one, too.

Hithadan hobbled the last distance to the inn and a little further round to the side door to the kitchen. He had a delivery for Cook. One of the merchants traveling in Bree had asked him to deliver a small sack of some beans, coffee beans he’d said. And he’d be mightily thankful should Hithadan be able to take them along with him to The Perch.

Stopping briefly at the pump in the kitchen yard, Hithadan washed off the grime from his travels as best he might. He shook off what leaves and dirt he could from his cloak and brushed off his pants; at last straightening his tunic into some semblance of order.

‘Delivery for Mistress Brandybuck!’ he called out, holding out the rough cotton sack as he entered.

The kitchen seemed in a frantically busy state. Without so much as a welcome, one of the Hobbits quickly took the offered bag from him and shoved a large potato masher into his just emptied grasp. A steaming pot of just drained potatoes was pointed out to him.

‘Bit of a tizzy here, Master H. Use those Big Folk muscles of yours and whip these taters into shape, won’t you?’ he heard the Hobbit’s voice say. Not waiting for an answer, the Hobbit headed to the common room with a basket of biscuits and a pot of jam. Hithadan leaned against the counter where the pot stood and fell to with the masher.