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doug*platypus · 01-17-2003, 04:44 AM

The Dwarf Bard

An eerie whistle of the wind wound its way through the White Horse Inn, as the door opened to admit a weary and footsore dwarf. The chatter died down as most faces turned towards the newcomer. With a long, slow glance, he scanned the room, narrowing his eyes against the glare. Seemingly convinced of its worthiness, the dwarf reached his hand up to the inconveniently placed handle and pushed the door closed.

Having doffed his deep blue hood and cloak, the dwarf lifted up his arms, stretched and gave an almighty groan.

"Oh, that's better!" he said to noone at all, clearly glad to have his journey behind him. Seasoned traveller though he was, the leagues from Erebor to Edoras were a great many in number.

He strode around the room, looking here and there at tapestries and artefacts of Rohan; he had never been in the Riddermark until now. He paused when he came to a fresh piece of parchment on the wall, some kind of notice. The dwarf's eyes bulged as he scanned down the page, until he looked rather like some kind of fish, his lips blubbering in excitement. In true dwarvish fashion, he then glanced from side to side with a sneaky look, one eyebrow raised. Thinking himself (wrongly of course) unmarked by any, he then quickly tore the parchment off the wall! Folding it hastily, he tucked it away inside his tunic and turned to casually walk to the bar. Turned, that is, right into a table, and then onto the floor with a flailing and a clatter.

A large and ferocious mattock, such as the Dwarves of the Iron Hills used in battle, struck the floor with an almighty crash, and the purloined notice, a pouch of pipeweed, several pipes, a wooden recorder and numerous coins all launched themselves out of the poor dwarf's pockets.

"Ooh, ah, I see your notice has fallen down, miss! Here you go," he held it out as a very amused innkeeper approached. Inwardly praising the suave way he had handled the situation, the dwarf pushed his fallen belongings into a pile by the nearest stool and sat down as if this was what he had intended all along.

After a few minutes musing on the notice he had just read, the dwarf retrieved his recorder, and began a slow solemn tune. It was an old ballad of the Lonely Mountain, such as had been learned by rote by every dwarvish bard for many years now. Given the strangeness and unsurety of his surroundings, the dwarf bard started soft, but low and sweet. When he had gained the attention of several patrons, he gradually moved into the more usual form of the ballad, weaving the notes in and around each other as each verse echoed the last. The refrain he played throughout tugged gently at the hearts of all who listened to it. Even without a harp or viol, the music was able to stir the emotions of the listeners, to arouse in them a feeling for the magnificence of the deep places of the world, and the caverns of the dwarves of Erebor. No other dwarf kingdom save one had ever produced so many fine bards.

He played on until eventually the song ceased just as it had begun, blending back into the usual sounds of the inn. The dwarf sat in silence for a moment, unconscious of several approving looks directed his way. Then he lifted up his head and asked without hesitation as if from years of practice,

"Right then, who'll buy me a pint?"

01-17-2003, 04:44 AM	#171
doug*platypus Delver in the Deep Join Date: Dec 2002 Location: Aotearoa Posts: 960	The Dwarf Bard An eerie whistle of the wind wound its way through the White Horse Inn, as the door opened to admit a weary and footsore dwarf. The chatter died down as most faces turned towards the newcomer. With a long, slow glance, he scanned the room, narrowing his eyes against the glare. Seemingly convinced of its worthiness, the dwarf reached his hand up to the inconveniently placed handle and pushed the door closed. Having doffed his deep blue hood and cloak, the dwarf lifted up his arms, stretched and gave an almighty groan. "Oh, that's better!" he said to noone at all, clearly glad to have his journey behind him. Seasoned traveller though he was, the leagues from Erebor to Edoras were a great many in number. He strode around the room, looking here and there at tapestries and artefacts of Rohan; he had never been in the Riddermark until now. He paused when he came to a fresh piece of parchment on the wall, some kind of notice. The dwarf's eyes bulged as he scanned down the page, until he looked rather like some kind of fish, his lips blubbering in excitement. In true dwarvish fashion, he then glanced from side to side with a sneaky look, one eyebrow raised. Thinking himself (wrongly of course) unmarked by any, he then quickly tore the parchment off the wall! Folding it hastily, he tucked it away inside his tunic and turned to casually walk to the bar. Turned, that is, right into a table, and then onto the floor with a flailing and a clatter. A large and ferocious mattock, such as the Dwarves of the Iron Hills used in battle, struck the floor with an almighty crash, and the purloined notice, a pouch of pipeweed, several pipes, a wooden recorder and numerous coins all launched themselves out of the poor dwarf's pockets. "Ooh, ah, I see your notice has fallen down, miss! Here you go," he held it out as a very amused innkeeper approached. Inwardly praising the suave way he had handled the situation, the dwarf pushed his fallen belongings into a pile by the nearest stool and sat down as if this was what he had intended all along. After a few minutes musing on the notice he had just read, the dwarf retrieved his recorder, and began a slow solemn tune. It was an old ballad of the Lonely Mountain, such as had been learned by rote by every dwarvish bard for many years now. Given the strangeness and unsurety of his surroundings, the dwarf bard started soft, but low and sweet. When he had gained the attention of several patrons, he gradually moved into the more usual form of the ballad, weaving the notes in and around each other as each verse echoed the last. The refrain he played throughout tugged gently at the hearts of all who listened to it. Even without a harp or viol, the music was able to stir the emotions of the listeners, to arouse in them a feeling for the magnificence of the deep places of the world, and the caverns of the dwarves of Erebor. No other dwarf kingdom save one had ever produced so many fine bards. He played on until eventually the song ceased just as it had begun, blending back into the usual sounds of the inn. The dwarf sat in silence for a moment, unconscious of several approving looks directed his way. Then he lifted up his head and asked without hesitation as if from years of practice, "Right then, who'll buy me a pint?" __________________ But Gwindor answered: 'The doom lies in yourself, not in your name'.