The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[piosenniel]

~*~ GREEN DRAGON INN FACTS ~*~

The Green Dragon Inn is located in Bywater, just off the Great East-West Road.

It is the 4th Age, year 12. By the Shire Calendar it is year 1433 S.R. (Shire Reckoning).

King Elessar is on the throne of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor.

Mirkwood has been reclaimed by the Elves and is now called Eryn Lasgalen.

Paladdin Took, Pippin’s father, is Thain of the Shire. (Thain is an honorary title for the military leader of the Shire. The title has been held in the Took Family since the position was first established in 3rd Age 1979 with Bucca of the Marish as First Thain.) Paladdin Took dies in year 13, and will be succeeded by his son, Peregrin, ‘Pippin’, Took.

Samwise Gamgee is Mayor of the Shire, having succeeded Will Whitfoot in 1427 S.R.

The Innkeeper, in the Green Dragon Inn of this forum, is: Aman – a young woman from Rohan.

Before her, the Innkeeper was Piosenniel, and before her it was Dwarin, the Dwarf.

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Other ongoing characters in the Inn:

Ruby Brown, Hobbit – not married – server and maid

Buttercup Brownlock, Hobbit – not married – kitchen assistant and maid

Vinca Bunce, widowed, Inn Cook (character played by Piosenniel)

Derufin, General handyman/jack-of-all-trades round the Inn; Man from southwestern Gondor (played by Envinyatar) - AWAy AT PRESENT

Zimzi (Zimziran), wife to Derufin; a skilled potter from Lindon(played by Pio) - AWAY AT PRESENT

Meriadoc - Stablemaster

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Ongoing characters from outside the Inn:

Halfred Whitfoot – local Shiriff from Bywater and Postmaster for this area of the Shire; his pony’s name is Dumpling.

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Please Note:

No 'SAVES' are allowed in the Inn (except for modifications needed to be made by the Moderators or Innkeeper).

With the exception of the Innkeeper and the Moderators, no OOC (Out Of Character) comments are allowed in the Inn.

Only the Innkeeper, Amanaduial, or the Moderators move the timeline for the Inn forward.

Visitors to the Inn will need to read the posts that come before theirs to get an idea of what time it is in the Shire, what the weather is like, and what is happening.

No violence is allowed in the Inn or on Inn grounds.

Please be familiar with the rules for the Inn and Games in The Red Book of Westmarch, the first topic in the Shire.

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About Elves in Shire RPG's:

Please use this description from Tolkien when crafting an Elf:

Return of the King – Appendix F: Tolkien’s description for the Quendi (The Speakers) – the name given to the Elves by themselves after they first awoke in Middle-earth.

“They were a race high and beautiful, the older Children of the world, and among them the Eldar were as Kings, who now are gone: the People of the Great Journey, the People of the Stars. They were tall, fair of skin and grey-eyed, though their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finrod; and their voices had more melodies than any mortal voice that is now heard . . .”

Please use this as a guideline for describing your Elven character’s appearance.

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EVERYONE

Please be familiar with The Red Book of Westmarch which gives the rules for posting in the Shire RPG's and in The Green Dragon Inn.

Thanks!

Piosenniel, Shire Moderator

[piosenniel]

Time of Day

It's morning in the Shire. Breakfast is being served.

The weather is pleasant - sunny with a clear sky.

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger and Wren cleared the table, scraping what scraps there were into the bucket for the garden’s compost pile. The dishes and tableware were then piled neatly into the sink to be washed a little later.

‘Come help me ladle the cake batter into the pans, will you Wren?’ she said, handing the girl one of the aprons from the pegs by the door. ‘We’re making sheetcakes for after supper. Nice yellow cake. Four of them I think. We’ll serve them up with strawberries and whipped cream.’

Handing Wren a cup, Ginger showed her how to go from pan to pan, pouring a cupful of batter into each until all the batter was gone and the pans equally filled.

‘Now let’s just open the oven . . . make sure there’s enough wood in the fire box. Then we’ll pop the pans in.’ Ginger pulled on the thick quilted mittens and pulled out the racks, placing each carefully carried pan Wren brought her on them.’ ‘You know, once we’re done here,’ she said, turning the small half-hour glass on the stove shelf over. ‘I could brush and braid your hair if you’d like. I have some pretty ribbons to tie them off. Blue, yellow, or pink. What do you say?’

[Amanaduial the archer]

Aman watched the boy from a few steps off, close enough to jump forward to prevent him coming from harm should he step too close or press to hard. But he seemed strangely at ease with the giant stallion - though dwarfed beside Taydoch's muscular eighteen hand figure, the boy's hand moved with gentleness and ease over the soft black coat. And, incredibly, the horse also seemed not to mind, nuzzling the boy's hand gently with his oddly angular face: as she had said, Taydoch was one of her three horses, but he was the youngest and most exciteable, barely a colt, and from wild stock - he was the product of a a Rohirrim stallion and an Easterling mare, and so was almost unique, beautiful yet serviceable, streamlined for running yet muscly and strong enough for combat, and with the fire from both his parents' stocks. The Innkeeper was fairly impressed, then, when she noted how calm both horse and boy were; he hadn't been exaggerating when he said he knew how to handle horses - even Merimac, the stablehand, wasn't particularly fond of dealing with Taydoch, simply because of the horse's size and the fact that, Merrimac claimed accusingly, 'it watched him'.

Aman gave the stallion a quick pat on the nose, then showed Tim around the stables, finishing with her own other two horses: a dappled grey mare whose very coat seemed to shiver into different tones like a cresting wave whenever she moved. She went by the name of Rochfalmar, and had been a gift, or maybe just a loan, from a good friend of Aman's - an elf by the name of Pio, the previous Innkeeper at the 'Dragon. And lastly, the most recent addition to her little team: Felarof, another black stallion but this time descended from the line of the meeras, and as such one of the finest horses in the South - a present from Aman's good friend and grandfather (as strange a wording as that may seem), Tar-Corondir.

As they left the stables, Aman felt it may have been safe to ask a few more questions about the boy - maybe he did not trust her yet, but he was more at ease. "How old are you, Tim? And your sister?"

[Folwren]

Wren, in the kitchen, stepped back away from the stove, wiping her hands on her apron as Ginger offered to do her hair. She smiled shyly and nodded.

“I’d like that,” she said quietly. “Should we take off the aprons first?”

Ginger agreed with one of her many smiles and they took off the aprons and hung them up. Ginger fetched the brush, comb, and ribbons and sat Wren down in one of the kitchen chairs and commenced to brush out her hair.

There were many tangles and for some time, the Hobbit worked in silence. Wren sat as still as she could, swaying back when the brush caught on a particularly hard knot, and going forward again when her hair was released. She showed no sign of any pain, for she felt little - Ginger was gentle.

“I like you,” the little girl said after many minutes of silence. “You’re nice. I hope Tim says we can stay. We haven’t met anyone like you on the road. Most people didn’t like people from outside the Shire, you know. One person let us sleep in their barn once and in the morning when some eggs were missing, he accused Tim of stealing them and didn’t let us stay for breakfast even. But it wasn’t Tim,” she said with a slight sigh. Her hand picked absently at a thread in her dress as she stared out the kitchen door and continued talking. “It was one of their dogs. I saw him get into the nests. But the fellow was very mean to Tim and I think Tim would have gotten mad back if he had any chance of convincing him that he hadn’t done it.” Gingner was braiding her hair now and Wren turned her head slightly and changed the subject abruptly. “Can you use the blue ribbon? That’s my favorite color.”

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Walking across the yard again, Aman asked Tim how old he and his sister was. “I’m almost eleven,” Tim said, looking up at her briefly. “And she’s eight and a half.” He stopped and gnawed on his lip thoughtfully for a brief moment and went on. “I know we’re kinda little and we may not look like we can do much, but we’re not weak, and neither of us are dull.”

Aman smiled kindly, and shook her head. “No, I’m sure you’re not,” she half murmured.

[Larien Telemnar]

Larien sat at a table, enjoying her breakfast in silence. She watched the other patrons, her saphire eyes roving about, searching for something of interest. She had a slight hangover from a little too much ale the night before, but she chose to ignore it.

She noticed that a young lad and lass were there, although they seemed to have no father or mother with them. She wondered curiously what they were doing out alone. She noticed how quiet the boy was with the great stallion, and how much help the girl was in the kitchen.

'I wonder who they are.' She pondered aloud.

[Primrose Bolger]

‘The blue ones it is, then,’ said Ginger. She finished one of the braids and bound it with a short piece of kitchen string. Her hands flew quickly through the other braid, and soon it too was done and bound. The length of one of the blue ribbons, the one the color of a bluebird’s feathers, was cut in two and twin bows soon found themselves perched securely on each of Wren’s braid ends.

Ginger glanced at the half-hour glass. The sand had almost run through. She peeked into the oven, noting the tops of the cakes were still wet looking. Closing the oven door once again, she turned the timer over.

‘Well, I suppose we could get these washed up and chopped,’ she said pointing to the carrots and taters and onions Aman had brought in from the garden. Cook does want to have some nice thick chicken soup for supper, but . . .’ She pursed her lips, then grinned at Wren.

‘If we’re quick about it, there’s a wardrobe of clothes that travelers have left in their rooms and never come back to collect or sent for. I’m certain there are skirts and blouses and dresses that would fit you. In fact, I know there are – I’ve looked at them myself.’ She held Wren at arm’s length and twirled her about. ‘You’re a Big Folk child, but still we’re about the same height. I’ve got maybe an inch or so on you.’ She took Wren by the hand and pulled her quickly up the back stairs of the kitchen toward the attic rooms above her own and the other server girls. ‘Step lively. We wouldn’t want the cakes to burn,’ she said, hurrying the girl along.

Ginger flung open the door and sneezed a bit in the stirred up dust. ‘There’s the wardrobe over there,’ she said pointing to a corner near one of the attic’s small windows. ‘Help me get the doors open, won’t you. They’re a bit sticky.’

[Pivli]

She paused at the top of the steps and leaned on her cane for a bit to catch her breath and rest her legs. ‘Not as spry as we once were, are we dears,’ she said flexing her creaky knees in anticipation of the short trek to the door.

Miz Violet Greengage brushed the dust from her dark green skirt and straightened the hem of her weskit. A familiar little whinny caused her to turn and she could see one of the stableboys leading her Nobby off toward the barn, her little green cart rolling along behind.

She walked to the large oaken door and putting her gnarled hand on it pushed it open. It was easier done than she thought it might be. ‘Kept in good order,’ she noted, nodding her head with approval.

Violet hadn’t been to the Inn in ages, it seemed. Though she lived not that far from it in a snug burrow up by The Pool. What with her children she’d raised, and their children and her garden and her few chickens and the goat, she’d kept herself busy enough paddling about in her own pond, as she’d say.

Now Mister Greengage, long since passed and buried in the small graveyard on the little hill that stood north of The Water, had enjoyed his weekly trips into Bywater to trade at the little market in the square, and had often spoken fondly of meeting with his friends in The Dragon, and a pint or two shared.

One of the ladies who lived near her had recently told Violet about the Faire that was to happen in a few weeks. There were to be booths of all sorts and she was planning on showing off her jams and jellies along with some of her neighbors. ‘And what about you, Miz Greengage?’ her neighbor had asked. ‘You going to show off your pretty quilts this year?’

Violet’s eyes were still sharp and she could still ply a needle with great skill. Her neighbor lady had gotten her to thinking about the many quilts she’d made that were stowed away in her great cedar chest. Perhaps she could show them off, she thought.

She made her way into the common room and looked about. ‘Now where was the Innkeeper,’ she said to herself. ‘And for that matter, who was the Innkeeper now.' One of the Big Folk she thought she'd heard from out east.

With her yew-wood cane tapping along on the wooden floor, she approached one of the tables. My, my it was one of the Fair Folk sitting there. Big as life and eating a proper Shire breakfast!

‘Pardon me for interrupting your meal,’ she said, standing near the Elf. ‘But have you seen the Innkeeper?’

[Seth Cotton]

Éothen was leading his horse along the road. The horse was tired, a long night of idle riding without a smallest pause. Éothen kept calming it, stroking it over the mane slowly with his hand and saying something silently to it that was almost unhearable for ears of Men.

The road led to The Green Dragon, an old Inn he had visited so many times before. Its renowned ale was the best he had ever tasted. The horse became more and more uncomfortable and pulled the reins and snorted constantly. Not even the calming words of his Master now helped and the situation became more serious.

Éothen really suffered and felt the pain as his noble stallion did. It was a bond he had never had with another horse before, and because of it, the horse had become really precious to him.

Finally he reached the Inn, he feared before that he wouldn't make it, and just seeing the small, narrow road leading down the Inn house made him sigh in relief. A great burden from his chest was gone as if it had never been there.

He came closer to the stables and met the Stablemaster, Meriadoc. He rushed up from the stool he was sitting on, leaning against the stable wall behind him smoking some pipeweed. 'G'day Sir! Is your horse in need of rest?' He glanced at the horse, and had obviously noticed the quite radiating exhaustion.

'Aye, it is my Friend.' Éothen responded, smiling faintly at Meriadoc. 'And so am I.' He chuckled and Meriadoc did as well. Éothen handed the reins to Meriadoc and made sure his horse did get plenty of food and water. He took farewell of Meriadoc and went over to the Main Building of the Inns grounds.

He went inside, and noticed, of course as it was early morning still, that breakfast was being served. Many was already up, sitting in the Common Room talking, eating or preparing to set off. Éothen was rather hungry by now after a long night of travelling. He did actually enjoy travelling in the night, he couldn't explain why.

He got himself some tea and bread then gazed around looking for a place to sit down. He heard a womans voice talking loud just behind him, probably talking to herself, but it was loud enough to drag Éothens attention just to see who it was.

He smiled and looked at her, seeing she sat alone eating her breakfast. He cleared his throat and asked 'Would you mind if I joined you, my Lady? It would be an honour'. He smiled again and half-bowed at her. He awaited her reply, looking at her with still a warm smile.

[Primrose Bolger]

Wren and Ginger picking berries

The sheet cakes were cooling on racks set along the kitchen counters. Ginger and Wren were out of doors, a basket each on the ground beside them, as they crouched down among the plants in the strawberry bed. Here and there a bright red jewel peeked through the green leaves, drawing their fingers on to find more of the tasty berries.

Ginger’s deft fingers worked their way down the rows, taking only the sweet, ripe fruit. ‘’Bout time for second breakfast, Wren, once we’ve finished here. We can set the berries in the cool pantry and wash and slice them later.’ Ginger rubbed the tip of her nose with the back of her hand. ‘We should check on what cream we have, too. Now as I think on it. We’ll want to whip up a big bowl of it to plop on the strawberries and cake for supper’s dessert.’

[Folwren]

Wren paused in her berry picking only long enough to glance into Ginger’s basket. She quickly resumed - the hobbit had twice as much as her at least, though it could hardly be because her fingers were any faster. More likely the reason lay with Wren having eaten at least half of what she had picked.

‘Second breakfast? We never eat that. What do you eat? Eggs and bacon again? I don’t think I could have that much a second time today...’ she trailed off as she flicked an ant off of the large, plump berry in her hand and stuck it in her mouth. Ginger glanced her from the corner of her twinkling eye and laughed, but made no answer as Wren appeared to have forgotten of having asked the questions at all. The girl was working with both hands now in a futile attempt to try to catch up.

When Ginger filled her basket, they headed in. Wren’s was only half full, but neither of them seemed to care very much. They laughed and talked merrily as they crossed the yard toward the kitchen door, Ginger swinging Wren’s hand.

In the open doorway, Ginger, having entered first, stopped in her tracks and her laughter stopped and her smile began to fade from her face. Wren pushed herself forward and little and peered about her skirts to see within.

A middle-aged looking hobbit sat at the table with his foot propped up on a stool. Wren winced and drew back an inch before coming forward to look again. The foot had blood on it, though it was no longer bleeding a great amount. She could not see what sort of wound caused it, but it didn’t look pretty.

Ginger, having recovered her countenance and bravery, walked forward again to the counter to put her basket of berries down. ‘What’d you do to yourself, Meriadoc?’ she asked as she passed him.

‘Trying to dodge some horse’s foot...dropped the pitchfork,’ the stable master said with a wince.

Wren stood in the doorway, frozen in her spot and staring. A moment later, her attention left the wounded hobbit and turned towards the door as Cook burst in, followed by one of her helpers.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

A large pair of muddy boots with a small hobbit poking out the top of them stomped down the road toward the Green Dragon Inn. To say that the halfling who inhabited those boots was small would inflate his size, for he was extremely small. Smaller, indeed, than many a halfling child. Even in his boots his head was no more than two feet above the road that he tramped, but he held that head high as though he were a giant among hobbits, and whistled a common folk tune gaily as he tromped. He seemed to take great pleasure in tromping, making a great show of bringing his feet down with finality upon each step. He wore an expensive waistcoat of green and blue, and his trousers and shirt were immaculately well tailored. Thrown over his shoulders was a travelling cloak that, while in good repair, had clearly seen good service. His hands were clean but strong and finely chiselled with callous: clearly a prosperous hobbit, but one who had prospered by dint of his own hard labour.

He crossed the yard of the Inn and stopped at the door to remove his boots, which he left carefully by the side of the stoop. Lifting his knees high to climb the steps he moved through the door and entered the Green Dragon. He stopped for a long moment to gaze about at the crowd of folk gathered there and his wide eyes drank deep. He had clearly never seen such a crowd of non-Hobbitish people before and was taking the time to enjoy his first opportunity to do so now. The smell of bacon frying woke him from his amazement and he scampered toward the bar. Even at the hobbit-sized end of the bar, his head only just poked above the counter, and he had to pull himself up onto it somewhat to speak with the pretty barmaid who came to take his order. “What can I get you sir?” she asked.

“Well, for starters, some of that bacon that I smell a-frying would be more than welcome, for sure, as well as some nice eggs if that could be managed. And do you have any good bread about? Nice rye or wheat-cake, I mean, none of that foreign stuff.” He was unsure if the bread in this part of the Shire was what he was used to, for he had never been on so far an adventure. The barmaid assured him that their bread was only of the finest Shire quality. “Very good, lass, very good indeed. And could I have some beer with that, for I’ve been tramping for days and I’m that parched.” The lass nodded brightly and skipped away to fetch his order.

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

Frór a dwarf of the Iron Hills steped in to the Green Dragon paying no heed to the other persons in the room.

Althoug he was young he was grim to look upon, he's face was full of scares and a pice of he's left ear was missing. He's long black beard was filterd and full of mud.

He was pasing throug the contry, tying to get to the Blue Mountains were his cusin on his father's side dweled.

He had traveld for a long time and an ill fortune had followed him. He had but reached the Mistey Mountains when he ran in to serius trouble, trouble he was now trying to forget. (at least for a while) When he had finaly escaped the Mistey Mountains he had gotten of track and instead of using the old East-West Road witch would have lead him to Bree, he had passed through the contryside some miles north of the road.

Becourse of this misfortune The Green Dragon was the first Inn he had found.

The only thing he wanted was a warm bed and too get some sleep for a change.

"Say, is it possibel to get a room in this inn." He spoke out loudly.

[piosenniel]

Cook and the problem of the wounded Stablemaster

‘In there, Miz Bunce,’ said Ruby, holding the door open for Cook and ushering her through with a pointing finger. Meriadoc sat with his right foot propped on a stool. Ginger stood near him dabbing at some bloody wound with a towel, but had only managed to make it bleed all the more.

‘Stars and garters, Master Meri! What have you done?’ Cook took the towel from Ginger and bade her go into the pantry and fetch out her medicine chest. Pressing the towel against the freshly oozing wound, Cook looked about the kitchen for another assistant.

Wren stood rooted to the spot she’d been standing on, her eyes agog at the wounded foot. It was now turning purplish and starting to swell. ‘Fetch me a bucket of warm water, dear,’ Cook said to her, jutting her chin toward the tea kettle on the hearth. ‘Make sure it’s not too hot. You can use that bucket by the sink, the one we use for soaking the dried root vegetables in. Oh, and a few more clean dusting rags from the basket over there will be needed, too.’

Cook turned her attention to Meri, dragging his explanation from him about the pitchfork. He felt foolish at his carelessness; the tips of his ears crimsoned as he spoke. ‘Nasty, dirty things, pitchforks,’ Cook said. ‘Lucky for you the tines didn’t go deeper.’ She clucked at the two ragged holes on the Hobbit’s foot, near his toes. ‘Going to swell quite a bit. You won’t be able to walk on it for a fortnight or so. Have to soak it every day, open the wound to let it drain. Otherwise the poison’ll work its way up your leg.’

She drew up a chair and sat down on it as she waited for the water and supplies. Meri had begun to protest how impossible it was that he take such a length of time off. Many new guests had come to the Inn; their horses and ponies needed caring for. ‘Can’t you just patch me up and let me get back to seeing to my patrons?’ he pleaded. Cook shook her head firmly, ‘no’. ‘Though who we’re going to find to help out on such a moment’s notice is beyond me . . .’

She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, casting about in her mind for someone she could call on to take over the stable duties . . .

[Primrose Bolger]

Buttercup attends to Frór

‘Another Dwarf!’ said Buttercup, hurrying over to where the newcomer stood. ‘That’s two in one day!’ She pushed the curls back from her face and put on her most welcoming smile.

‘I’m Buttercup,’ she said, introducing herself. ‘One of the servers at The Dragon. How can I help you?’