The Green Dragon Inn - Part 9

[Regin Hardhammer]

The Dwarf’s auburn beard bobbed as he walked down the dirt path to the Green Dragon Inn. Regin Hardhammer had traveled on foot from Ered Luin where just a few of his kind still lived. He was journeying on to the Glittering Caves of Aglarond to help with the mining and metalwork, the colony that Gimli had started following the War of the Ring.

Regin was a skilled metal smith, especially in the fashioning of battle raiment and weaponry. His axe, coat of mail, and helmet were all crafted using the finest precision. He had been trudging along the road for days with nothing but bread, cheese, and water, and had not had a strong ale for far too long. In the wee hours of the morning, after travelling all night, he approached the Inn’s front gate eager to quench his thirst with a nice tall pint. The Inn was quiet when he entered and no one seemed to notice him. A group of Hobbits was chatting softly in the corner. A Man and an Elf sat at a round table sipping their brew wordlessly. There was a pall of weariness over the tavern, perhaps because it was so early or a number of the folk seem weighted down with heavy cares.

“It seems as if someone died in here,” Regin ruefully reflected. He went up to the bar hoping for a drink . A repugnant smell of burnt eggs wafted through the air. Dain shifted his gaze hurriedly around the room. From the kitchen appeared a tongue of flame spreading swiftly across the wood. A hobbit girl stood agape with a pan dropped to the floor beside her. From the open doorway, thick billows of smoke poured into the Common Room.

“Fire,” Regin yelled , “ Fire in the kitchen. Grab a pail from the shed and bring water from the well.” He grabbed a milking bucket outside the inn and hurriedly dashed toward the well. His pint of ale would have to wait.