The Seventh Star Inn

[Imladris]

Ærosylle skipped up the path to the Seventh Star. A smile was on her face, dark brown hair, shot with copper, bounced from her shoulders, her grey eyes, flecked with green, sparkled, and she clutched a leather bag. Her ragged hem of her pale green dress flapped wildly around her dancing feet.

Flinging the door of the Inn open, she threw herself into a chair and began to trace the grains of the wooden table with her finger. Two others sat at it, conversing with one another: a man with red hair and a woman with brown. Two empty plates were stacked towards the edge of the table.

Ærosylle stared at the man’s red hair: it was so lovely, so bright, so tantalizingly foreign. She flicked her eyes away, and stared at the finger that continued to trace the grain in the wood. Her feet tapped nervously, as if she wanted to go somewhere but didn’t know where to go when, with an irritable sigh, she rummaged in the bag and pulled a piece of ill shaped paper flecked with green from the leather bag along with a goose feather quill pen and a bottle of ink. Her hand quivered as she dipped the feather into the ink and began to sketch. A deformed hag’s face with hollow cheeks and a warty nose appeared upon the parchment. With long spidery line, Ærosylle drew straggling grey hair that clung to the woman’s scalp like seaweed upon an anchor.

“What are you drawing?” asked the woman, peering at the paper.

Ærosylle’s pen paused and, one eyebrow higher than the other, mouth slightly open, and eyes wide, said “It’s a woman. An old woman. A fisherwoman who will live by the sea.” She glanced up and smiled at her and continued, all the while shading and colouring the woman’s face, “Did you know that we will all grow old? Our beautiful hair will turn grey, and maybe it will fall out and become bald which would, indeed, make us even uglier than this old crone….a wart would be better than no hair at all.” She reached out and touched the woman’s hair, and stared longingly at a the man’s red hair before she said, “Leave me be…she must be perfect or she won’t live at all.”

She bent low over the paper, muttering words as she drew a still ocean, flecked with foam, and on the horizon a ship with black sails. “Corsair…” she whispered. “What is your name,” she asked, glancing towards the redhaired man and the normal woman.

“I’m Mellonin and this is Raefindan,” the woman said. “And you are?”

“Ærosylle.“ Giggling, she threw her pen down and picked the portrait up, studying it with a broad smile. But it faded, and she bit her lip as she stared at the sketch, before finally shaking her head. To the left, surrounded by smooth grey stones, was a fireplace and in that fireplace a fire burned. Red flames, streaked with orange and glimmering with blue, licked hungrily around wooden logs and sparks exploded from the collapsing wood, meeting their doom on the stone of the hearth.

Her black pupils dilated as she walked towards the fire the paper in her hands. Mellonin and Raefindan followed her. She stood in front of the fire for a few minutes, enjoying the feeling of dying skin as the heat poached her shins. With a small smile and a sob, she let the sketch fall from her fingers and drift towards the flames. The sketch convulsed into a crumpled singed ball before disappearing amidst the glowing embers of the burnt log. The taint of burning ink contaminated the homely smoky smell.

“Why did you burn it?” Mellonin cried. “It was a wonderful sketch and that paper was wasted!”

“I can always make more,” Ærosylle said with a shrug. “But the old woman! The corsairs killed her -- didn’t you see the ship on Gondor’s horizon?” she asked. She folded her arms and stared at them, tapping her foot. “They killed her…so she couldn’t exist anymore. She was a casualty of war. I do hope you understand that she’s dead, and if you’re dead you can’t exist, which means…you don’t live anymore.

“I have never been to an Inn before, and it is absolutely lovely!” she said, brightly. “I don’t know why because it’s just like a house only bigger, but there seems to be an aura of excitement and adventure which is lacking at home,” she said as she skipped back towards the table with Mellonin and Raefindan. “But I am so tired…my legs are protesting against my journey,” she laughed. “I should have flown,” she added. Seeing the two lunch plates still sitting on the table, she gestured towards them and said, “You really shouldn’t stack them so and just shove them out of the way. You’ll hurt their feelings if you haven’t done it yet.”

[mark12_30]

Mellonin glanced at Raefindan, who returned the glance with tight lips, and made a sign with his hand.

"Well, " said Raefindan gently, "we certainly wouldn't want to offend the plates. Would we, Mellonin?" A sharp glance from Raefindan prevented Mellonin's surprised reply, and another, even sharper glance followed. Mellonin blinked; Raefindan was sometimes argumentative, but this was like a direct order. She bristled. A third sharp glance follwed, lips tighter this time.

"All right; all right, " she said, confused and not a little hurt, and with a puzzled glance at Raefindan she gathered the plates and took them to the kitchen.

"Where is your home, Ærosylle?" Raefindan asked. Her eyes grew glassy as she replied, "Not the seashore. No, not where the waves kiss the sand."

"How did you come here?" Raefindan persisted.

"I thought I told you. I flew, " she said.

"No, you said you should have flown but didn't, " he replied, and then realised that would only make things worse. Mellonin came back through the door.

"Well, I've soothed the poor plates' injured feelings, and they are happily on the shelf where they belong, " she replied through clenched teeth. "And now would you mind telling me--"

[Imladris]

“I’ll tell you anything you want,” said Ærosylle… “But first, did you make sure the plates were perfectly comfortable?” she asked, glancing towards the kitchen. At Mellonin’s nod, Ærosylle continued, “I think I lived in Gondor…I should have flown…this was such a long way away. Have you ever tried to fly?” she asked, leaning towards them, and rocking violently in her chair.

“No…people can’t fly,” said Mellonin.

“Just because we have wings doesn‘t mean we can‘t fly,” said Ærosylle. “I suppose you must be wondering why I would come to an inn that is so far away from my river weeds. That’s how I made the paper,” she added. “But I heard word of the Seventh Star Inn from some traveller. Have you ever stared at the stars at night?”

They nodded.

“I suppose I was rather hoping that this Inn would be a star, even though I knew it wouldn’t.” She laughed and laid another piece of paper onto the table, before she was rapidly sketching again. “The Corsairs shouldn’t have killed her,” she said as she scratched away. “As if she could have stood against them! I suppose that that just goes to show their cowardice.”

Underneath the quill pen swarthy men with rich armour leaped from their black sailed boats to the shore, attacking a squadron of Gondorian troops. Bodies were trampled to earth, one fell with an arrow in his throat; in the distance a Mumak appeared, lumbering its way to join the battle.

The pen dropped from Ærosylle’s fingers, and she glanced towards Raefindan and Mellonin. “So many people die,” she said. Her grey eyes dimmed with tears, and her voice became shrill. “Gondor couldn’t stand for long -- the king didn’t return soon enough.” She flipped the parchment so that the sketchy drawing was facing Mellonin and Raefindan. With a trembling finger she pointed to a fallen Gondorian soldier. His raven hair was a tangled mass, his cheeks were slashed, yet, through the veil of blood, there was a small, wistful smile haunting his lips. “My grandfather,” Ærosylle said, tapping the drawing with her finger as she rocked back and forth.

Twirling her hair, she looked at Mellonin and said, “What did you want me to tell you?”

[mark12_30]

"Er, well, " Mellonin began. And then she leaned over to Raefindan, and whispered, "What's the matter with her?"

Raefindan glared at her again, and whispered back through clenched teeth, "She's not well. Be gentle with her."

Mellonin's eyebrows went up, her mouth formed into an "O", and then she leaned closer still, and her lips formed the word moonstruck. Her eyes filled with fear.

Raefindan sighed.

"Is this what happened to my brother?"

Raefindan shrugged, and Mellonin calmed slightly, her eyes going from the girl to Raaefindan and back again, realizing that he knew more about this than she did.

"I don't know. Ærosylle, where did you live when you were a little girl?" Raefindan asked patiently.

"In the reeds."

"So... by the riverside?"

She nodded.

"Do you have family there, or friends?" Raefindan asked.

[Mithadan]

A soldier of Gondor entered the Inn, waving to the barkeep and some few whom he knew at the various and sundry tables. As always, the appearance of a man at arms in the Inn caused some to turn to watch the goings on in curiosity and others to turn away or shrink into the shadows. The soldier ignored the curious stares as well as those who shrank from his gaze and proceeded to the end of the bar where messages were sometimes posted upon the wall. Withdrawing a scroll from his pouch, he unrolled it and tacked it up on the wall. Then, seeing as he was now off duty, he sidled over to the bar and ordered a pint of ale. Behind him, some took the opportunity to hasten away while he was not looking. Others approached the bar in curiosity and examined the newly posted notice. It read:

The Seventh Star and the Lords and Council of Gondor hereby welcome and extend their courtesies, respects and congratulations to AYLWEN DREAMSONG who has been named on the roles posted in the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice her trade in the Realm of Gondor.

[mark12_30]

Mellonin smiled, and rose.

"Where is she? Where is the new bard?" she cried. "Surely she will join us here at the Inn. And if she can truly sing dreams, " Mellonin said, glancing at Raefindan who looked intrigued, "she must sing for us!"

Raefindan nodded, and then looked as if he had second thoughts. "Aylwen Dreamsong. Does her name mean that she sings about dreams-- or that when she sings, you dream? or that after you hear her sing, your dreams change? Or-- well, I have sad dreams enough; I could use some cheerful dreams. Dreams with a happy ending, maybe?"

Mellonin grew somber for a moment; her own dreams had been difficult too. Then she brightened. "Perhaps with the offer of a bottle of wine, she will choose cheerful songs, and we will dream cheerful dreams!"

Raefindan tried to feel optomistic. Mellonin was ready to hear the minstrel, and Raefindan hoped that she was right in her optomism about cheerful dreams.

Only-- where was the minstrel?

[piosenniel]

It had been a long, hot, disgruntling day at the dressmaker’s shop. Were it up to Piosenniel alone she would simply have pointed to a bolt of some acceptable material of an unobtrusive hue; given some vague instructions to the seamstress about not making it too tight or too long. And no, she would not be needing a cloak, slippers dyed, scarves, or any fussy items for the hair.

Or better yet, she would rather have pulled some gown from her wooden chest, shaken it out, and called it ‘good’.

But Gilwen had seen the invitation and mounted a protest. ‘It’s the King’s party, ammë! You have to have a pretty new dress.’ Little Cami nodded her head solemnly, wondering all the while if there would be cakes and other sweets. Eyes sparkling in anticipation, she piped up with a suggestion for a new bag to go with the outfit. ‘A pretty one . . . and big, too,’ she murmured at the end, thinking of the treats that might be brought home in it.

Even Isilmir had his thoughts on the occasion. ‘Father’s gone away. You’ll have to be the one to show up for our family. He’d want you to go and greet the King.’ He looked at his mother with a critical eye. ‘For a mother you still look good.’ Pio raised her brows at this assessment, but he continued on. ‘A pretty new dress would be even better.’ Cami and Gilwen nodded in complete agreement with their brother.

Pio had shaken her head and burst out in laughter at their concerted effort. ‘Alright, then,’ she had said. ‘Promise me there will be no more talk of pretty this and pretty that, and tomorrow we will all go into the city to see about making me suitably acceptable!’

~*~

Now they found themselves at the Seventh Star Inn. The discussions about material, the cajolings about ‘fashion’ and the innumerable measurings were done for the day. The seamstress had promised to have it ready for a fitting in a few day’s time, further promising that it would be the final fitting. The Elf had an exasperated look in her eye by the end of this tedious process. The dressmaker wisely chose not to discuss accessories, simply tucking away in the back of her mind what would be appropriate. She would present the entire outfit when Pio returned.

‘Look, ammë!’ Gilwen’s voice broke in on her thoughts as she sipped her cup of wine. Pio turned to see her daughter standing on a chair the three had carried to the wall at the end of the bar. ‘A story-teller . . . a new one has come into the city.’

Little Cami danced at the announcement, twirling around in delight as she looked up at her sister. She fixed her mother with a smile. ‘Oh, I love new stories! We can stay to hear one, can’t we?’ she asked clapping her hands. She looked about expectantly, wondering which one of the people at the Inn’s tables might be the new spinner of tales . . .

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

For the first time, Aylwen stepped into the Seventh Star. She was free to practice her trade in Gondor, and accepted to join the others that were of the distinct honor of being on the list of proper Gondorians. It was a fine and happy day for Aylwen, indeed, for she had spent many, many long months in Rohan. Aylwen knew her heart was still in Rohan, but such an honor as to be admitted pass into Gondor would not be overlooked by the young minstrel.

The young lady watched as people crowded around the message left by the soldier of Gondor. Some walked off, uninterested; others searched to see what face belonged to the name on the message.

"Perhaps with the offer of a bottle of wine, she will choose cheerful songs, and we will dream cheerful dreams!" Aylwen overheard someone say, and the new Gondorian chuckled at the suggestion. Aylwen walked over to the one who had spoken.

"I do not need wine to sing cheerful songs!" Aylwen said as greeting. "If it is music you wish to hear, and music to soothe your soul, you need only ask. Wine is a temporary comfort...a good tune rings forever!"

Aylwen pulled her set of panpipes from her knapsack, and piped a few notes before clearing her throat and singing the first song of dreams that came to her. In her clear alto voice, Aylwen sang for the woman and her companion:

"Rest, rest, sweet dreamers are sleeping,
Soon the dreams will come a-creeping.
Rest, rest, your peace will come soon,
Before the rising sun and setting moon.

Forget the Haven’s bells, forever ringing,
Listen only to the dream spirits singing.
Forget the pain of the day long past,
And I promise, you will find peace at last.

Rest, rest, dream of prosperity,
Crisp and clean in morning clarity.
Rest, rest, and loathe the hour of dawn,
When you must wake to dreams forgone.

Smile in your sleep, sweet little one,
And you will find joy ‘ere all is done.
Think of the times before there was war,
And you will sleep happily, forever more.

Rest, rest, my restless child fair,
Calm in dreaming without despair.
Rest, rest, and I promise you’ll see,
The world of dreams was made for thee."

[mark12_30]

Oak, Beech, and Willow finished their drinks, stood up from their table, and wandered toward the door. As they went, Beech glanced up at the wall, and paused.

Oak stopped and waited, and Willow swayed impatiently. Beech ran his hands through his hair, and shook his head. "...admitted to the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice her trade.... " he muttered.

"What?" said Willow.

Beech said it again, louder. "Has been named on the roles posted in the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice his trade in the Realm of Gondor."

Oak and Willow exchanged confused glances.

"We have neard little news, " Beech said. "Perhaps the messengers have been waylaid or news has not come this far. But I am sure there have been adventurers in Rohan whose names would be expected here. But none have been announced for quite a while. Do you not think so?"

"I think you're daft, " replied Oak.

"You think everyone is daft," replied Willow.

"Nevertheless, I think it is odd that we have seen no new adventurers from Rohan in over a year, " said Beech.

"Oh, you fret too much, " said Oak.

"You don't think enough, " said Willow.

Still bickering, the Three Trees walked out of the dark Inn into the bright afternoon.

[Thenamir]

A long silence had fallen over the Star (unlike stars which usually fall in silence) and somehow in the quiet a newcomer had slipped into their midst, though no one had seen him enter. He smiled not at all, gazing long and steadily at all in the room in turn, though never was he the first to drop his eyes.

He was of average height, but unnaturally thin and pale, as though he had spent long hours seated in cold and cramped places illumined by lights most unnatural. His visage was young, but drawn and pale. He wore an odd thin black mask which appeared to hold a pair of smoothly flat pieces of glass before his eyes. His breeches and tunic were of a supple but very strong material of a light blue nearing white, and upon his breast there was a pocket containing three or four small thin rods of varying hues. In one hand he bore a staff of white, in the other a new-looking parchment.

He strode through the silent throng to the Wall of Notices. Oddments of parchments now crumbling with age, old advertisements for questors and adventurers, still hung there, mute testament to the loremasters and warriors of olden times. He shook his head sadly as he glanced through the bits and pieces of lore gone by. But in a moment his staff was up, and with a quick motion he swept the detritus from the wall. In the resulting open space he slapped the parchment to the wall, pinning it quickly with four smart taps of his staff to the corners of the document.

Any activity of this kind was now so rare in the Seventh Star as to be nearly equivalent to legend and myth, and many were those in the Star who started at the newcomer's actions, and many who desired to read the portents which the new posting contained. But none would approach yet, as the stranger slowly turned to face them.

"I am come on the request of Merisuwyniel," he said in the voice of a squeaky countertenor of the very worst boy-bands, "she of the Quest of the Entish Bow, Whose Golden Tresses Are Always Perfectly Coiffed, and Who the merest dust mote would never deem to touch. Many were the misadventures of that quest. Many were the vile puns and insults of low humor that she endured and yet came forth victorious -- the Ent is now reunited! Yet many foolhardy and faux-hearty souls were lost along the way. And now, at the denouement of her adventures, a new quest has been laid upon her by the Yawanna, the Green Goddess herself (may her dressings never sour) to restore the lost King, the questionable Halfemption Gormlessar, to the throne of Grundor in Minus Teeth, the high city (referring mostly to the special pipeweed there). There are yet more posts to riposte, more gaffes to gather, and more continuity to contort! Join us as we seek parity in parody! Let the Barrow-Writers come forth and join us in REB III: The Return of the Entish Beings!"

With that, the nearly-white-clad stranger spoke softly into the head of his staff the words of great power: "Beeme meup Skotii!" Moments later the stranger disappeared in a sparkly display of mixed-metaphorical anachronisms...

[Bêthberry]

The haunting melody of Aywlen Dreamsong's panpipes drifted up the wooden staircase and through the floorboards into the Innkeeper's room. The echoing notes were an eerie reminder of the eyes and ears downstairs, as if even here in Rimbaud's private rooms he could be traced and followed.

Not followed perhaps, but observed in passing. When he and the LoreMistress had left the great hall, their departure together had been noted. They could not escape that, nor, indeed, had they tried.

Yet both were brought up short when they entered a room they had expected to be empty to find a figure in dark brown cloak standing before the fire.

The Loremistress spoke up first, curtly and with authority ringing in her calm tones, "What business have you here?"

The Innkeeper looked at her, his tired eyes for once showing some interest, and raised his hand silently. He recognised the figure that had stood watch over him for many days.

She turned and threw off the hood, smiling at the Loremistress.

"You did not expect me here, old friend, but here I am," she spoke quietly. "And I am most pleased to see you looking well, better than the Innkeeper here."

At that moment, they were interrupted by the arrival of a large falcon who flew through the slightly opened, shuttered window, a small twig in its beak. Wyrd landed on the worn wooden desk, dropping the twig, his head turning with sharp, penetrating glances to the three humans before stopping to stare at the Innkeeper.

[mark12_30]

Outside the Inn doorway three Gondorians lounged against the moonlit wall, all well but plainly groomed and dressed, all boys on the verge of manhood. Typical grey eyes and dark hair framed their laughter, and their jests were no less gleeful for their lack of ribaldry. All three sparkled with camraderie and deep affection; their history as a threesome went back to before they could crawl.

"Should he not be here by now?"

"He said sunset, and the sky is dark."

"Late. He moves with the speed of the silver-haired."

"What shall we ask him for?"

"War stories."

"Dance tunes."

"Love songs!"

"Dreamer!" "Hopeful!"

"I can give you all three, " said a new voice. He was three years older than the others, a Gondorian, similarly dressed, but dusty and smudged.

"There you are!" "Here he is!" "Well met!" "You are well, are you not?" "Shall we go inside?" They embraced him in turn.

"Yes. My day has been long and dry. Who will buy the first round?" said the new arrival.

"You're the wealthy traveller!"

"Yes, and I've spent it all, " he laughed. The four young men entered the Inn.

[mark12_30]

The four young men went to the bar, ordered some mild ale, and took their drinks to a table. Morien walked past them, and grunted a greeting, followed by a laugh. "Haven't seen the Three Trees here for quite a while, Hîriest! You come home, and I gain not one customer, but four."

The dusty newcomer grinned at the others. "Your reputation still proceeds you."

"You are one of us yourself!"

"He said Three Trees. Not four."

"You have been gone a whole year. It took half that time til they renamed us."

"What did they call you at first?"

The three younger men exchanged glances. "Different things."

"What things?"

"Four Trees Short One."

"Four Trees Down to Three."

"The Emptying Grove."

Hîriest began to chuckle.

"Four Trees, One Gone."

"Four Trees but One Was An Ent."

Hîriest laughed out loud.

Morien walked past. "My own favorite was, Four Trees But One Took A Wrong Turn."

"I did not take a wrong turn, " objected Hîriest.

"Well, " said Morien, "I still pride myself on being able to tell them apart."

"Really."

Morien nodded.

"Name us, then!"

Morien set down his tray, and cleared his throat. Going around the table from Hîriest's left hand, he pointed. "Doroninn. Gaerbrethil. Calentathar."

All Four Trees shared a smile.

Morien looked from one to the next. "Am I right?"

They laughed. "No."

Morien scowled, and tried again. "Gaerbrethil. Doroninn. Calentathar."

"Try again!"

Morien thought for several moments. "Calentathar. Gaerbrethil. Doroninn."

More laughter gave him his answer, and he snorted in defeat. "Tell me, then!"

"Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, Doroninn!"

"Bah. You trade names each week!"

"Some so accuse us."

Morien stalked off, chuckling.

The boys quieted, and then looked to Hîriest. "So what will your new name be? You can no longer be "Lord of the Wish", for your wish came true, and you travelled beyond Gondor."

"I don't mind my name."

"Oh, but we must give you a new one!"

"Lord of the Horizon!"

Hîriest coughed into his ale.

"Far-Flung Storm!"

"Don't be ridiculous, " Hîriest said.

"Lord of the Rangers?"

Hîriest sighed. "What is wrong with Alagothôn?"

"You cannot be a tree anymore; you have torn up your roots. It no longer suits you."

"Then call me harper, " said Hîriest.

"Harper?"

"That's all? Just... Harper?"

"Too plain!"

Hîriest sat back and waved for another ale. "There is no shame in being plain. Or simple."

Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, and Doroninn exchanged skeptical glances.

"I have been called 'Harper' in many a town. I have gotten used to it. Harper... Talagand... Nandaro..."

The Three Trees were silent, and the signals that passed between them would have puzzled any but Hîriest. He knew they had agreed.

Morien arrived with another ale, and the talk turned to other matters.

[mark12_30]

Hîriest and the Three Trees spent most of the day swapping tales and songs. Hîriest had collected plenty during his year away, and he sang til he was hoarse. Each of the three (Oak, Beech, Willow) insisted on learning a different song, and they were merciless with Hîriest til they knew all the verses cold. By nightfall Hîriest was reduced to sign language and was asking for honey in all of his drinks.

Morien laughed at him. "Come home to your Grove, only to die there? Some friends."

Hîriest shook his head, and hoarsely whispered, "If I die of singing too much, it will not be here. I will be on the road again come dawn."

"What!" "You cannot mean it!" "You just arrived!"

Hîriest raised his last glass. "Nonetheless, I must depart. I will return as soon as I may. There is a large celebration in a far country in the West. I will meet a friend along the way."

"What friend?" asked Beech.

"His name is LinGalad. He is a Mirkwood elf. We sang much together when I visited there. He will meet me at Bree."

"And you leave in the morning?"

"I must, " said Hîriest, giving Willow a shove. "Or I will have no voice left." He finished his drink, and they walked out into the night.

[piosenniel]

Pio drew her blue wool cloak tightly about her as she pushed open the heavy door. The rough hewn oak of the Star’s door felt comforting, familiar still beneath her fingertips though it had been many a year since her path had taken her to this Inn.

It was eerily silent within as she entered, just as it had been that first time she’d come here. She peered about, but nowhere as she looked around could she discern the figure of the Innkeeper, Rim. No flash of his thin blue sash in light or in shadow caught her trailing gaze. His grey clad staff still ministered to the Inn’s needs, she noted approvingly, even in Rim’s absence. The pale, wood-paneled floor was spotless. On each clean and uncluttered tabletop burnt a fiercely bright candle. And at the far end of the common room above the fireplace hung the great iron plaque inscribed with a list of names engraved in a flowing script.

Pio handed her cloak to one of the servers, waving away his offer of a glass of wine. ‘Here, come help me,’ she directed him, making her way toward the fireplace. ‘Lower down the plaque, won’t you,’ she went on. ‘I’ve got a bit of polishing to do on it.’ ‘And.....’ she muttered a little more quietly to herself.....’something to put on it if I can figure out the trick Rim used to do so.’

As luck, and a few glasses of wine now accepted, would have it, the plaque polished easily and just as easily lent itself to being writ upon. ‘Clever old fox, that Rim,’ she chuckled to herself. Pio stepped back a pace, giving a critical eye to her handiwork. ‘Not bad, eh?’ she said, nudging the silent server at her side. For his part he gave her a deferential nod, though she wondered if she had really seen one of his eyebrows raise slightly at her familiarity.

The plaque was raised up once again to its place above the fireplace. The light from the sconces to either side of it made it gleam brightly, especially the newly ‘graved name. ‘Now all we have to do,’ Pio went on, ‘is send out the errand-riders to announce the party.’ She reached into the worn leather pouch that hung from her belt. ‘Here, I’ve written this up already.’ She pulled out a much folded piece of parchment and smoothed it out on a nearby table top -

***

Come one, come all, you denizens here and in far lands!!
All those who enjoy the reading of a good tale and the playing out of one.

A new name has been added to the list of storytellers in Gondor:

~*~ littlemanpoet ~*~

Come and give your congratulations to this wonderful wordsmith!

~*~ Free drinks/ free food/ & plenty of good company ~*~

***

‘Just send this out, won’t you dear,’ Pio went on, handing the parchment to the server. She clapped her hands and motioned others of the silent retinue forward. ‘Big party! Make sure there’s plenty of the good stuff for the partygoers. And, oh, yes, see if you can dig up some of those nuts.....those ones from the south.....pistachios. They’re good with ale.....and I have a taste for some of the good brew from Stock.’

Pio sat herself down on one of the stools at the bar and accepted the mug of dark ale that appeared quietly in front of her on the deeply polished bar top. She hummed low as sipped at it, every once in a while giving an expectant glance at the door.

[mark12_30]

"A taleteller indeed. I have heard him speak; he can weave a fine tale, " said Hiriest.

"Too bad there will be more drinking than tale-telling, for I would like to hear him, " said Beech.

"Patience, then. Or fortitude, for some of his tales are in the library. Bring extra oil for your lamp, and coffee; you will be there long." Oak chuckled; Beech had no taste for dim libraries.

"Reading his tales! Surely he can tell them to me himself."

Willow smiled, and said nothing, but Oak laughed out loud.

"THey are not short tales, " Hiriest replied, laughing. Together they came to the Inn door, and round the corner came a small hobbit. They stopped short in surprise.

"Well met, Halfling. What brings you to Minas Tirith?" said Beech. "We are Hiriest, Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, and Doroninn. We are pleased to make your aquaintance...?"

"Lindo, of Westmarch," he said, and bowed. "I received tidings that littlemanpoet has been named a Bard of the Seventh Star."

"He has indeed, " replied Hiriest,"and we come to celebrate him as well. JOin us for an ale?"

"Thank you!" replied Lindo, and the five entered the Seventh Star.

[Undómë]

Curiouser and curiouser . . . Undómë swept in through the stout oaken door in the wake of the quite interesting group who preceded her. Of Hobbits she was quite familiar, but the four tall figures with him quite took away her breath. Ents! I’m sure of it! she whispered in an awestruck tone. LMP’s circle of friends ranges wide indeed!

She thought she saw a familiar figure, there on the stool. It was Piosenniel, wasn’t it? From back in the Shire. Undómë heard the Inn doors swing shut behind her as she headed for the bar. She noted a mound of little red colored shell halves piled in front of the Elf, and watched her for a moment as she skillfully prised apart another . . . nut, it must b . . . and popped it into her mouth.

‘What are those?’ Undómë asked. She glanced about the still empty room. ‘And where is LMP . . . can’t have a party without the honoree.’

Can have a drink, though. she thought to herself.

No sooner thought than done. There in front of her stood a tall mojito; its mint sprig garnish seemed to wave at her invitingly. Some place!! she thought as she took a generous swig of her drink.

[littlemanpoet]

"It's just as good in the living as in the reading or the telling," said Raefindan to his guest. "Look around you!" The young man with the moppish head of red hair gestured grandly at the bowshaped promontory that overshadowed the city, and his hand continued in an arc encompassing the whole city and the plain below and the rising mountain above.

Raefindan's guest closed his eyes, not to shut out the wonder but to take a moment to take it all in. A small smile came to his bearded face. He opened his mouth to speak his thought, but all that came was, in a murmur, "It's wonderful."

"Is that all you have to say? You're supposed to be such a wordsmith!"

"You're teasing me," Raefindan's guest said. "Well, okay then, so strange it seems, and good, here at the end of all things, as a true hero once said, that you are with me, Raefindan."

"And how could I not be with you, you made me what I am today."

"How could I not have helped you become what you are? You're a part of me."

"Enough of that, here we are," said Raefindan, "The Seventh Star. They're waiting for you."

Raefindan's guest shook his head, the smile of incredulity remaining on his face. "Well, let's not disappoint."

They passed through the front doors and found inside a decorous common room, rich wood beams and clean tables. There was Pio, and Undómë, and Lindo and Hiriest along with some Ents who somehow did not look out of place.

"Greetings, friends!" cried Raefindan, and named himself. "I bring you littlemanpoet!"

Littlemanpoet grinned, abashed, for he saw the plaque on the wall and was humbled at the honor. "Greetings! Please, call me Elempi."

[Arry]

Arry stomped along the road leading up to the Inn. One hand was stuck in his pocket, fingering the crumpled notice from The Golden Perch. Hmmm . . . let’s see he said squinting his eyes toward the sign he saw swinging in the breeze. The sign read “The Seventh Star” . Arry pulled the parchment from his pocket and held it up close, confirming that that was indeed the Inn named for the party.

He remembered elempi from The Yule Log. Wenda had been his character there . . . a very interesting character she’d turned out to be. Arry recalled how he’d thought Elempi a quite good writer then and from what he’d read in the Rohan Mead Halls his writing had gotten better and better. And, oh, there was that old memory of another encounter. Yes – the old Green Dragon Inn! Elempi played Falowik to Elora’s Uien. A lovely couple; well drawn.

Arry shouldered open the Star’s door and stepped into the welcoming light. He was a bit discomfited as one of the silent servers slid up alongside him and with a wave of his grey-clad arm offered to show Arry to a table.

‘Thanks, but I’ll find my own,’ Arry said, nodding back as the server gave him a deferential bow. His eyes were drawn to the place where Elempi stood with yet another familiar face . . . a blue eyed, tall young man with a mop of red hair. Now he recalled the young man’s name – Raefinden, from the Tapestry stories.

Arry drew close to the knot of well-wishers about elempi. ‘Been good to write with you, sir,’ he said extending his hand. ‘Just wish there had been time for another opportunity to game together.’