The Seventh Star Inn

[Ransom]

Ransom studied the map, his mind idly sifting through the possible meaning of the map. He had very little experience in the matters of the Easterlings, especially when they didn’t directly influence Gondor. His last meeting with the inhabitants of Harad resulted in several painful bruises and a deep cut to his calf. The Grandmaster of the Blade began to reach for one of his namesakes, but groaned in frustration when his fingers closed around the sheath of his main gaunche. What was he supposed to use for a pointer now that he’d surrendered his weaponry to the gray servants?

“Tis a very interesting map, Gandalf, but I am afraid I am unfamiliar with creature of which you speak. I am a simple soldier, and I know not what these Ithryn Luin are. Could you enlighten me?

[Rimbaud]

In the long-disused old dining room of the Seventh Star, dust lay calmly and unpeturbed. The brash new living room, some three times the size was sufficient for even a great many guests, and the Star had in any case been quieter of late.

Still, outside the locked door of the room, feet padded and thumped, voices called and intrigues played their melodies throughout.

In the top corner of the room, at the far end from the door on the wall nearest the fireplace, a blue velvet wall hanging was starting to come away from the wall. Dust fell from its curled blue edge, sparkling and glinting in the sunlight as it fell. The light blinked in through dusty windows, suffusing the room rich tans and ochres.

The wall hanging slipped a little more, and if there had been anyone to see, a very curious thing happened.

A small paper scroll slipped out from behind the hanging and drifted, unfurling as it fell through the glittering dust to the floor. Its thick papyrus stretching itself out as it fell, it bagan to rotate and swell.

Before it reached the floor, the parchment had calmly and unobtrusively resolved itself into a familiar form in grey and blue. The figure, of medium height and slim build, straightened the odd blue sash that flowed from right-hand shoulder to meet a thinner blue belt at the waist and made silently for the door. Small handfuls of dust puffed into the air from his soft footsteps.

Although he appeared to use no key, merely to stroke the handle, the lock clicked, and the thick wooden door swung towards the grey figure, as noiselessly as if it had been well-oiled in the years since it's last apparent use.

The figure paused in the hall, head turning, then flitted towards the sound and noise of the common room double doors at the end of the hall.

Slipping unobserved through the crack in the doors, the figure skirted the small gathering of drinkers at the centre tables to come to a standstill before a large wall-mounted oak board, upon which golden characters were elegantly scribed. A list of names it was, headed by a notice proclaiming their valiance.

Removing a shadowed something from within his tunic, the figure acted swiftly and quietly, unseen by the room's other occupants, who paid no heed, preferring the crackle of the fire and the ministrations of the barkeeps. Yet, although no sound was made, and although none see the figure leave as silently as it had come, a new name stood in letters on the board; carved as if it had ever been there, stood the name Fordim Hedgethistle.

The business of the Inn paused as people came to their realisations, and paused again as drinks were raised to the newest name on the List; the door to the fogotten dining room remained closed and seemingly undisturbed as always.

[piosenniel]

Pio paused in her game of darts as the familiar figure passed by. ‘Now what’s the old trout up to?’ she wondered. Reaching for her everpresent mug of stout, she ambled over to the iron plaque. Her pink tinged computer glasses rested lightly on the top of her head as she leaned in to see the bright, new name.

‘Fordim Hedgethistle! Well, well . . .’

Turning, she lifted her glass in salute, thinking that perhaps he was waiting in the shadows. ‘Welcome, and well done! Come have a glass!’ she called out, her grey eyes narrowing as she looked about the dim lit room.


Kudos, Fordim!

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The odd, ragtag crew of folk that approached the Gate of Minas Tirith that morning drew the stares of all who beheld it. At the front of the column there marched a furious looking Dwarf with a mighty axe flung across his shoulder, upon which was carved in the strange runes of the Dwarves the name of Haenir. Behind him there came as odd a pair of Men as any in that city – which was used to wonders – had seen. The dark man was tall and sharp, with deep grey eyes and a stern aspect. Some about the walls recognised him and called out “Run and tell the King that his kinsman Tar-Corondir has returned!” Others looked not at the Black Numenorean King, but at his companion the handsome and still boyish Hearpwine: “The Bard of Rohan has come! The Bard of Rohan!” arose from all quarters, as they anticipated with glee the songs that he would sing for them. There was a tall Elf as well, and those who were visiting the City from the Golden Woods recognised the renowned warrior Ambarturion One-Hand, and they wondered to see him so far removed from the land of Lorien.

But the surprise of the people at these appearances was as nothing when the party entered the gates. For accompanying the noble party of Dwarf, Elf and Men were other, more curious figures. There was an aged Hobbit mounted upon a donkey. The Halfling gazed sourly at the buildings about him as though wishing he were anywhere else. To repeated inquiries he replied that his name was Fordogrim Chubb, and no, he was no relation to Frodo, Meriadoc, Peregrine or Samwise, whoever they might be, and he had no wish to be known to them as from the sound of things they were crack-brained folk who left their own land for Adventures of which he wanted no part.

Sulking along behind Mister Chubb was a ragged figure of a Man in tattered clothes. He had a glum aspect but there hung about his eyes a hard-forged determination, and those who looked into those eyes knew that he was capable of great strength beyond his narrow frame. He spoke with the accents of Mordor, to their great consternation, and had the uncouth name of Grash.

Most harrowing of all to those who beheld the party was the dark figure of nightmare who followed at the end of the column upon a great black horse. A rumour of terror came before him and many fled before the form of Khamul, but he looked neither left nor right and seemed unaware of the consternation he caused.

The company wound its way through the streets, drawing ever greater crowds, until they arrived at the door of the Seventh Star. There they paused, and a strange quiet seemed to descend upon them all. They looked at one another for a second and then, strangely, they all moved toward the door at once. And whether it was that they somehow grew smaller, or that the door loomed up larger than before, they seemed to pass through it at once, and as they passed through it they seemed to disappear, or – rather – to become one. In the space between the batting of an eyelash the large party which had entered the doorway was replaced by the single, unassuming form of a simple man exiting that same doorway.

After the marvels they had beheld, he was a disappointing sight to those who had gathered to welcome him, and some sighed and turned away, while others clucked their tongues and returned to their beverages. Fordim Hedgethistle nervously ran his hand through his hair to push it out of his eyes before sneaking a peak at the sign which had been altered to include his name. He allowed himself a quick flush of success and pride before moving to the bar and ordering a pint of their best ale. Taking a deep quaff he turned and said to the eminences who were gathered in this place:

“Cheers!”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Loremistress of Minas Tirith had her sources, and as always Estelyn's connections with the host of the "Seventh Star" made her privy to the news sooner than most others knew of it. Pausing only to gather a stack of blank parchments, her favourite pen, and a goodly supply of ink, she hurried over to the Inn. Impetuously, she pushed open the door to the common room, which had begun to fill satisfactorily.

She waved to the keeper of the drinks, who looked over and called out, "The usual, Princess?"

"No", she smiled, "this is a special occasion and calls for something special! Do you have a good bottle of that wonderfully bubbly wine in your cellar?"

He nodded and disappeared, only to reappear a few moments later with a dusty, promising-looking bottle in his hand. He wiped it clean, then carefully and steadily pulled out the cork with an attention-getting "plop!" Fordim was not the only one who turned around to investigate the source of the sound, but he was the first to whom she waved.

"Come on over and have a glass!" she said invitingly. "This is your party!" And the bottle must have had some Faery quality to it, for it did not become empty, no matter how many glasses were filled.

Yet, ever mindful of her responsibility to the White City's Library, she kept her writing materials in readiness and listened for new stories by the newcomer. Rumour had it that he often asked for people's opinions, keeping tally of the results, but she was sure that there were many good tales to be had if she listened for awhile.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Looking down out of the dust-covered window of the room which she had rented, but whose rent the disused Inn had long since failed to collect, Aman watched the gates of Minas Tirith almost disinterestedly, her head leaning against the window frame as if she was dozing off, motionless as she was: why, she could have been there forever, a forgotten rag doll in the attic. But as the sounds of laughter, then of cheers, began to waft up from the streets, the woman's green eyes brightened somewhat and, as the cheers grew in volume and confidence, the young woman slowly raised her head from where it had rested. Finally, in the streets below, she saw the procession draw up and, as the first of two men drew into sight behind a dwarf she did not recognise, Aman's face cracked slowly into a wide smile. Like that rag-doll puppet now come alive, she leapt from the window seat, running out of the door and pounding down the corridor to the stairs, dust flying up in her wake.

"Cheers!"

As Fordim took a pull of his drink and uttered that single word, Aman gave a delighted laugh from the balcony above, and swept an overdone, elegant bow down at him. "Long have we waited for you to enter these doors, Fordim! Welcome Snaveling, Hearpwine, Haerin, Grash, Ambarturion and..." she trailed off slightly, eyeing the shadow-cloaked witch-king suspiciously, a figure whom she had come into conflict with more than once. Then she shrugged. "Welcome all, to the Seventh Star, and to Gondor!"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim blushed from the unexpected attentions of such luminaries. Returning Aman's bow with his own clumsy attempt (he saw her politely hide her snicker) he thanked her for the welcome. "It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude for my admission to this realm, my lady. Were it not for you and the wondrous climes of the Green Dragon Inn I would not have stayed at the Downs for very long. But I must not forget Pio the Inestimable either, nor Child, who also made gaming there so wondrous and rewarding. And lest I be admonished by the Lady Bethberry (whose eye I can see glittering already) and Mistress Aylwen I hasten to add that my time in Rohan was as rewarding as it was challenging. But on to new matters!

"I have, for a time, been wondering about the possibility of bringing a new type of game to the RPG forums of this place. Over in the Mirth Thread there has been an ongoing series of adventures in which vailiant villagers conted with werewolves -- I have thought that such a story might make for an interesting RPG...

"It may be immodest of me to propose something of that nature when I have not been in Gondor for more than a week, but I merely mention it to give Esty something to jot down in her tablets. For it seems to me that a full Werewolf RPG in which the Game Initiator were to assume the duties of a game moderator might be quite entertaining. It would, of course, be an actual RPG and adhere to RPG rules and standards; it would be an RPG modelled on the game of werewolf and not a game of werewolf that attempts to be an RPG. It would also, ideally, be an RPG in which rather, shall we say, experienced gamers would play so that we could keep the game on track and involved with the intrigue of it all...

"But that is mere wondering on my part, and more than likely it is the result of my having taken too much of the ale and bubbly of this fine establishment!"