After such a hearty meal and a pint or two of the best beer in all of Shire, Al was feeling quite drowsy - not so drowsy as to take a nap, but enough not to go looking for trouble. For the past hour he has dined alone, brooding on the injustice of the people around him and the wrongs they have done him. But it is known, in the words of his renowned grandmother, that a mug of good ale makes old grievances stale, and soon enough Al's mood cleared and he dwelt more on his drink than on his grudges.
He did not move as the other visitors steped out one by one into the wind and the room enptied. He did not even notice that he was the last customer left. His reverie ended when the innkeeper came up to him and asked politely about how long Al woud be staying.
“In amongst the rush there, I hadn’t gotten a chance to ask you," he explained. "You’re from Buckland, if I’m not mistaken, though I don’t believe you ever said. . .”
"From Buckland indeed, from Brandy Hall itself!" Al replied, content for the time being to talk about his home and his plans with Master Boffin. "You ain't going to find nothing better! You should come visit it sometime!" Al paused to take another sip of ale. "I'm on my way to Tookbank, you know. I'm a taking my time getting there. Small, drab, moth-eaten place it is. But my mother's kin has the rotten luck to live there." Al sighed and sipped his mead again.
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