The Vineyard Tavern

[Ealasaide]

Bragorn hesitated for the slightest instant, surprised at his charm being rejected so firmly out of hand - for he had been making an attempt to charm the young lady -, then he roared with laughter.

"Whoo!" he gasped finally. "Hey!" he called after her, as she left to fetch the ale. "Make it a brown ale, if you can manage it! If you can-nah, let me know and I'll give you a hand!" In response, the serving girl, Kannah, looked daggers at him, which only made Bragorn burst into fresh paroxysms of laughter. As his mirth finally began to taper off, Bragorn sat back in his chair and wiped at his eyes, still chuckling softly. If you can-nah... I'll give you a hand he repeated under his breath and laughed again, infinitely tickled at himself and his own wit.

"Oh, and how about some bread and cheese with that ale, eh?" he called over his shoulder to her above the din of the other conversations in the busy common room. Once he had finished laughing, he had realized that he was also very hungry. "There's a nice girl!" he added as Kannah acknowledged his food order.

Can-nah, he repeated again and laughed. Oh, this is going to be fun... Watching as Kannah's rather glamorous figure disappeared into the kitchen, he wondered if Kannah was new to the inn or if he had just managed to miss her the last time he was there. Either way, he was happy not to have missed her this time. Her prickly manner amused him no end. As for the other serving girl, - what was her name? Eda, Ida? Something like that. He remembered her from the last time because of an unfortunate remark he had made about her in passing to Rochadan - something about her and the hayloft out in the stable. The stablemaster, his old friend no less, had nearly punched him. After that, he had left Aedhral - that was her name! - alone. But Kannah! She seemed much more his style, anyway.

"A loaf of bread, a pint of beer, and thou beside me, singing in the wilderness!" he sang in a rather tuneless baritone as Kannah reappeared beside him with his ale. "So you're from southern Gondor, are you, love?" he asked as she set the heavy glass down on the table in front of him. "Whereabouts?"

[Orual]

"So you're from southern Gondor, are you, love? Whereabouts?"

Kannah looked up, her gaze darker than the ale that she set before Bragorn. Her brown eyes studied him briefly but intensely as she decided on an answer. She turned her head a bit, and the bells that hung from her ears jangled in a merry way that contrasted with her sour expression. "My people...they are from the Ethir Anduin," she said finally, slipping a napkin underneath the mug. "I was born in Dale. Raised there." She looked up at Bragorn from the table, her eyes challenging him to say something.

"My father was a healer," she continued imperiously. "We moved to the South so that he could procure the supplies that he needed. They--my parents--started something of a medicinal business there. The South is good for business. Lots of commerce, and good products." She rustled her silk skirts. "These are from Harad." This was a lie. They were imitations from Rohan. "My parents made a good living in the South. But--"

She stopped abruptly. What was she doing? She was about to tell this rogue everything! She tossed her hair over her shoulder and rubbed her hands vigorously on her apron. "I've told you enough about myself. What of you, sir? From whence do you hail?" She endowed the sir with enough scorn to cow several grown men, but she was not surprised when Bragorn hardly seemed to notice.

[Ealasaide]

Bragorn listened to Kannah’s discourse with interest, his merry gray eyes taking in the imperiousness of her manner with something between amusement and delight. Although she seemed to be making her best effort to intimidate him, Bragorn felt anything but cowed. In fact, as far as he could see, her haughtiness was merely her way of flirting with him. He smiled as she rustled her bright silk skirts, and obligingly looked down at them in admiration. As he did so, however, he raised one dark eyebrow ever so slightly. Hadn’t he just seen some skirts remarkably similar to hers in a merchant’s stall at the market in Edoras when he had passed through Rohan on his way north? He remembered thinking at the time that it was a pity he was currently without a wife or sweetheart, as they were an excellent buy. But then, he was no judge of ladies’ clothing. Perhaps the skirts in Edoras had been merely well-executed copies of Haradrim originals such as these. After all, if lovely Kannah said that hers were the genuine article, then who was he to beg to differ? He did like those earrings, though, especially the way they tinkled when she tossed her head.

“What of you, sir? From whence do you hail?” she asked with enough scorn in her voice to wilt a full field of alfalfa.

“I?” answered Bragorn lightly. “Not from the deltas, that’s for certain. My people hail from the northern end of Gondor, near the Rohirrim border, a small village close to the Firien Wood. Horse people there. Some people think of us as being more closely akin to the folks of Rohan, than of Gondor, though we are indeed Gondorians. Your people are healers, you say?”

“We are,” answered Kannah firmly, with a slight lift of her chin.

“That’s brilliant!” He smiled and took a long gulp of his ale. Putting the glass aside - half-empty - he wiped the foam from his mouth with his hand. “Maybe you can help me. I took a bit of a tumble the other day when my horse happened to step in a gopher hole. The shoulder’s a bit stiff.” He leaned toward her with his most charming smile and, pushing his thick black hair aside with one hand, used his other to pull back the neck of his mail shirt revealing a glimpse of very brawny shoulder. “Anything you can do about that?”

He really had taken a fall from his horse a few days prior and the shoulder really was a bit sore, but it was nothing for which he would ordinarily seek the attentions of a healer. It was simply all he could think of on short notice that might capture her interest, so he waited patiently, affecting the look of a wounded martyr. In the meantime, he expected her just as likely to reach out and pinch him as anything else. The more he thought about this possibility, however, the more the shadow of a grin danced on the corners of his mouth, transforming his martyred look into a rather twisted and silly grimace.

[Ealasaide]

As Rochadan led the last of the waiting horses inside to be groomed and stabled for the night, he found himself giving the dusty animal more than a second glance. The bay gelding was very, very familiar to him, almost as familiar to him as his own horse. With a sudden and knowing smile playing on the corners of his mouth, he reached down, loosed the cinch strap, and lifted the well-worn saddle from the animal’s broad back. There, just as he had a expected, he found a large “B” embossed into the leather.

“Bragorn!” he said aloud. It had been a long time since he had seen his old friend, in fact, since before the dragon. Rochadan went about the rest of his chores quickly that he might get to the common room and find the Gondorian messenger and have a few minutes to sit down and share news with him, catch up on old times, before the dinner rush of new arrivals to the inn. He hurried also because he knew Bragorn’s character very well and was aware that the fellow would be hard at work bothering the serving girls. Rochadan knew that Bragorn never meant any harm by it, but he could be a tremendous annoyance.

Finishing with the horse and saddle at last, Rochadan jogged to the front door of the inn, and went in. Sure enough, there sat Bragorn with a goofy look on his face, showing his shoulder to Kannah. As he watched, Kannah snapped the back of the messenger’s head with her dishcloth and spun away in a rustle of cheap silk. The messenger erupted into laughter, calling after her that even if she couldn’t fix his shoulder, he still wanted his bread and cheese. Rochadan pulled out a chair and sat down opposite his old friend.

“Greetings, great messenger and terror to all unsuspecting women,” he said amiably. “You’re almost as bad as the dragon. How long have you been in Esgaroth?”

“Rochadan!” exclaimed Bragorn. He half-rose from his chair and, in his exuberance to embrace his old friend across the table, upended what remained of his beer. Not having anything with which to clean up the mess, he just let the puddle stand on the tabletop and set the heavy - but now empty tankard - upsidedown in its center, where it presided over the conversation like a moated fortress in miniature. “You are still here!” continued Bragorn without missing a beat. Grinning broadly, he flopped back down into his chair. “You know, I asked that lovely creature if you were still about somewhere, but I don’t think she ever told me. As for Esgaroth, I only arrived here this morning. Official business, you know, so I had to attend to that first, but this was my first stop afterward.”

“Did you have any trouble finding the inn?” asked Rochadan. “It’s all so different since the town was moved and rebuilt.”

“None at all,” Bragorn assured the stablemaster. “But it was a little disorienting when I first arrived...kind of like Esgaroth but not Esgaroth at the same time. I must say you’ve done an admirable job of rebuilding. Such wild stories we’ve heard in the south about your dragon and the great battle at the foot of the Lonely Mountain. I take it you were there in the middle of it?”

“Quite,” answered Rochadan with a rueful smile. “I feel almost disloyal saying it - the inn has been quite good to me - but it was nice to be in the saddle again with a sword in my hand. To be honest, while I enjoy my life here, I miss the excitement of battle.”

Bragorn’s wide, cheery face sobered. “Well, if it’s that sort of excitement you are missing, there’s plenty to go around in the south,” he said grimly. “Do you remember Bonden?”

Rochadan nodded although he hadn’t heard the name in very a long time. “Big fellow - face like a baboon? He had that roan horse that liked to bite.”

“Exactly.” Bragorn nodded. “He was slain by orcs outside of Ithilien last year. Killian, too. I’m not sure what is happening across the river in the east, but it seems that there have been more and more orcs about lately. The roads grow ever more dangerous, especially for our sort - couriers and messengers, that is. Truth be known, we could use a man like you.”

Rochadan’s expression darkened. “Killian and Bonden were both good men, good fighters. How did it happen?” Both men had been particular friends of his. He could recall in years past sharing many a meal and friendly drink with them both. Bonden, if he remembered correctly, would have left behind a wife and three children.

Bragorn shrugged. “Ambushed on the road is all I can guess. Killian was pierced with so many black arrows that he looked like a pin cushion. Nothing was ever found of Bonden but bones and his broken sword. In both cases, their message bags were gone. In fact, I‘ve had a few close calls myself. All I can say is that I thank Eru daily for my dash of good luck and a fast horse.”

“Luck and a fast horse,” echoed Rochadan quietly. “Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

Bragorn nodded. “Let’s have another round and drink to our fallen comrades.” He raised his hand and, catching the attention of the innkeeper, gestured for two more ales.

[Bêthberry]

OOC

Writers of the Mark, please take a look at Fordim Hedgethistle's new game, Shadow of the West

It is an excting game of intrigue set in the Second Age and exploring the creation of the Nazgul.

Come join the fun!


Bethberry

[Imladris]

Ærosylle heaved a sigh, looking around for the elf. He had disappeared...probably into the sunset like Finian was always saying. A tear pricked her eye. Why was she crying? She had seen many elves...yet she had never spoken to one. Yes...that must have been it.

Stop crying you slimy human the grumpy plank growled. Be like us wood...we who are solid and stern. We never cry...do you know why? It's because we, in the wisdom of our over long lives, know [/i] that crying will do one no good. It won't solve a thing.[/i]

Ærosylle sniffed. The Wooden Plank could be so wonderfully cheering sometimes. She blinked at it and slipped away. She would leave him to his own cynic views.

She crept outside and stared at the birds. She wished that she could turn into a bird and fly away toward Mirkwood and have adventures. She remembered that when she had been younger, she had wished that she could grow wings, but Finian had told her that it was impossible to grow wings and to stop thinking foolish thoughts.

Could a human turn into a bird?

She bit her lip and meandered into the barn. Finian had never said that it was impossible. Had he even mentioned the subject. She cocked her head, beckoning the Breeze to remind her if Finian had mentioned the subject and if he had, what he had said. The air remained still. The Breeze would have come when she had called him with her silent plea. But the Breeze was a lazy thing and would only come if he was really needed.

She nodded.

His abscense meant that Finian had remained silent upon the subject. Since Finian had not mentioned it, it must be possible.

With a deep sigh of contentment that reminded the hay of a golden ray of sun, Ærosylle reached a grubby hand for an even grubbier ladder and began to climb to the hay loft. She could hear the hay mutter accusingly as she passed. She had forgotten to visit them. She felt a pang of guilt. She was supposed to have brought tea too. She shook her head and patted the hay, hoping to pacify it. It worked as it always did. Hay didn't have the sense or inclination to be angry long.

Opening the loft door (there was a name for it but her memory quite failed her -- it was wretched at its job) she perched upon the wooden step.

How did one turn into a bird?

She closed her eyes and thought hard with all her might. Birds...feathers....soaring winds...

[Orual]

"Anything you can do about that?"

Kannah stared at Bragorn's shoulder with a mixture of seething fury and piqued interest. Who was this man? He surely had enough gall for several men his size. She almost laughed aloud: several men? More like half a village. She put her hands on her hips in what she assumed was a fetching manner, leaning into the position like she had always seen her elder sisters do. "Let me see that shoulder, sir," she said, dropping her voice down at least an octave from the shrill pitch she usually employed. "Oh, it looks bad! Luckily for you, my people have exactly the remedy for a shoulder like yours."

Bragorn looked up. "Do they?"

Kannah nodded, picked up her skirts, and went to the fire. She drew a red-hot poker from the hearth and raised it up, studying it dramatically. She delighted to see Bragorn's eyes grow wide out of her peripheral vision.

"You see," she said, approaching him with the poker, "your humours are all off. Was it a fall? If so, then you might have too much earth elemental in your shoulder now." She rattled off some more nonsense that she made up off the top of her head, hardly even listening to herself. A small smile crept onto her lips.

"If we just make a small laceration--"

She heard some dogs go wild outside. They began to bray, howl, as if the world itself was coming to an end. She sighed loudly and trudged back to the hearth, sticking the poker back in.

"I have to go see what those fool dogs are going on about," she said to a wide-eyed Bragorn, and then stormed outside.

"Beasts! What are you howling about? If you're just having at each other, I'll whip you within an inch of your miserable lives, you black holes! The amount you eat, I'm surprised this inn hasn't gone under twice over. I'll--"

She finally followed the dogs' line of sight, and gasped. Ærosylle! She ran to the edge of the barn. "Ærosylle! Stay where you are! If you jump--"

She couldn't think of a threat. Her heart was in her throat. "Ærosylle, don't move!"