The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Maeggaladiel]

"Perhaps," added Eleniel, "but you have company now, Soronume." She smiled and took a drink of her ale, absently tossing Arrow another piece of bread. It was gone with a single snap of his silver and ivory jaws. He licked his lips and stared hungrily up at her, as though he hadn't eaten in years.

"Did you say you've traveled to Cirith Ungol?" Eleniel continued. "You must be very adventurous indeed! What caused you to go to that dismal place?"

Arrow started to whine. He stared up at Eleniel with large brown eyes, giving her the patented "Sad Puppy Look."

"ALL RIGHT." she said forcefully. "Here. Happy now?" She ordered a plate of bacon and set it on the floor. Arrow wagged his tail. Yes, he was quite happy now.

She nibbled on a piece of her own breakfast and took another drink. It seemed as though the dust from the road had been building up in her throat. Soon she'd have accumulated a fine sized desert where her tongue should be. The ale helped a great deal.

"I've never been to Cirith Ungol," she said, turning back to Soronume. "although my adventures have taken me close to the land of Mordor. What was it like?"


She turned briefly at the sound of the well-dressed incomer. He doesn't look like much of a traveller, she thought. He looks more like a bored nobleman.

"Dwellers of the Green Dragon Inn," she heard him bellow. "Do not be alarmed. I am taking over the position of leadership as of now."

Eleniel was far from alarmed. She rolled her eyes wearily and cast Soronume a wry smile.

"Somehow I doubt Lady Aman will surrender her position." she said. She watched as the man slipped on a puddle of spilled ale and landed on the floor. She gave a snort.

"Whatever is the world coming to?"

Arrow seemed to find this newcomer most amusing. Wagging his tail, he abandoned his licked-clean plate and sniffed at the man's face, licking his nose.

"Arrow," Eleniel called sharply. "Leave the amature inn hijacker alone."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling was shaken out of his reverie by the oddest trio of hobbits he had ever beheld. For a moment, he could have sworn that he was looking at the younger cousin, or perhaps even the brother of Tobias, for the Halfling who addressed him had the same overblown sense of grandiosity that was so charming in his friend. One moment’s inspection, however, dispelled this notion, for nowhere in this countenance as there evident the good hearted roguery of Tobias Hornblower. Instead, Snaveling detected the officious sanctimony of a minor official with an inflated sense of his own purpose. Snaveling could not help but smile at the trio, who gave in return only stern looks. “I am not,” Snaveling began, in his best court manner, “in the habit of giving out information about my friends to total strangers. Might I ask who you are, and why it is that you seek the Innkeeper?”

For a second, the lead Halfling looked like a kettle that had been left to boil dry, so furiously did his chest puff out. A thick thumb planted itself in the middle of his out-thrust shirt and the little fellow chuffed out, “Mister Fescue Bracegirdle.” His thumb then moved to point over his shoulder and he said again, as though he were listing off produce in a shopping bag, “Masters Spurge Proudfoot,” his thumb moved to his other shoulder “and Grumwell Boffin.” He returned his thumb to his pocket and, planting his feet apart, began in what Snaveling felt must be his best official manner. “We are here on Thain’s business, sir, and not to be rude, but if you aren’t in the business of discussing your friends with strangers, I’m not about to speak of my mission to an outsider, begging your pardon and no offense intended.”

“None taken.” Now Snaveling had a very difficult moment repressing his smile. To cover the effort he straightened in his chair and spoke in the manner that he had learned from watching his King with foreign emissaries. “My name, though you have not asked it, is Tar-Corondil, although I am known to the people of these parts as Snaveling. To answer your question, the Innkeeper is…”

At that moment a loud voice from the far side of the room announced that it belonged to the new ruler of the Inn. Even as Snaveling was attempting to digest this odd notion, the owner of the voice fell to the floor. Snaveling rose to his feet, not to help but the better to watch this comic moment unfold. His eye caught sight of Tobias sitting alone in a dark corner, and in a flash he knew that the arrival of Fescue and company had something to do with his friend. Eager to distract their attention, Snaveling pointed to the man on the floor and said to Fescue, “Why the Innkeeper has saved me the trouble of pointing him out! There he is upon the floor. You must forgive his outburst, it happens when he’s partaken of too much ale.”

[Firefoot]

Lily grinned, both in memory of yesterday's ride and in anticipation of another one. "Yes, yes, I should like that very much," she said. "After luncheon it is." Clover stamped his foot as if he too were eager to get out. Posco had finished checking on his pony, and he walked over to her, asking, "Have you finished?" Lily gave her pony a gentle tug on his forelock in farewell and turned to Posco.

"Yes, I am ready to go back to the inn now." Lily took Posco's offered hand and they returned to the inn together. Upon entering, Lily took note of the man lying on the floor by the bar. She murmured, "Someone has apparently had too much beer. At this hour!" Posco nodded in agreement. He led her to a table towards the back, pulling out a chair for her to sit in and then sitting down himself.

"Another ride," Lily mused. There was a joking tone in her voice and a sparkle in her eye. "Now what kind of adventures do you think we might have this time around? Runaway ponies, maybe? I think we will have fun."

[Lalwendë]

Jinniver had done her best to get clean after the unforeseen tumble in the dirt, but there was only so much a bucket of cold water could do to wash off so much muck. Her fingernails were still blackened where she had made a vain attempt to claw at the ground when she was brought down, and she now had a few nasty splinters in her hands. In between bites of her scone, which she held using a clean napkin, she picked at the tiny shards of wood.

She did not sit still for long; soon she was up and whirling around, beating the skirts of her tunic furiously in an attempt to remove more of the soil. Her face grew quite red, as she got more frustrated with her futile attempts to remove the mess. Her other tunic was not fit to wear, as it was badly stained and creased, so she could not change. The only clean garment she had with her was her best dress which was packed in the travelling bag in her bedchamber. She realised with a sigh that she would have to change into it later while she had her tunics laundered. It was too expensive a dress to wear for gardening, so she would have to put on a brave face about the state of her clothes until her work was done for the day.

As she was agonising with herself, she had stood lost in thought as the hobbit lads had burst out in another scene of commotion. Hearing about the youthful romantic feelings of young Ferdy, she smiled. But a sense of sadness was behind her smile. It was a long time since she had felt that rush of pride and embarrassment at being found out for liking someone. She looked across to where the young hobbit lass, Ginger, was tending to the flowers at the inn, and almost felt a tear rise in her eye.

[Kransha]

Taking several auspicious glances in rapid succession, over his statuary shoulders, Fescue Bracegirdle eventually got around to speaking again, after double-taking a number of times at the strange man who this aristocratic fellow had nominated as the innkeeper. “Well, thank you very much, Master Snaveling Tar-Corondil.” He said, bowing with a highly embellished flourish, “The Thain thanks you for your services.” The man nodded pleasantly and turned away, a little too promptly for Fescue’s liking, but the hobbit was far too enthralled by his own deeds to realize that something might be amiss. He turned sharply on his unclothed heel, and looked down at the peculiar “innkeeper” of the Green Dragon, one primly formed eyebrow raised just above the other. Spurge nudged Fescue with his grimy elbow, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

“He doesn’t look like an innkeeper, Fes. Looks like more of a toss-pot to me.” remarked Gromwell astutely. “Fescue, Gromwell,” Fescue Bracegirdle swiftly corrected, in a timely manner, “and I do think he has that air that a mannish business-owner should.” He turned his head and looked down, with mild indignation, at the pompous fellow, taking due note of his appearance, slight dishevelment, bombastic gait and girth, and his looks on the whole. He then nodded curtly and turned back, looking back at Gromwell as if his point had been magically proven simply by looking at the man. Spurge, though, did not seem convinced, though Gromwell began vigorously nodding to satiate Fescue.

“But the Thain’s message stated that the innkeeper was a girl.” Spurge said, jabbing a fat finger at Fescue, his lip curled in disdain. He paused, looking contemplative for a moment(or, about as contemplative as half-witted Spurge Proudfoot could), his finger pausing in mid-motion, and then suddenly flew to his side, to the leathery belt that hung over his shoulder as a military sash might. In the folds of the broad baldric, several scrolls were held by further cords and draperies, and the brawny hobbit produced from the multitude of messages a single scroll of fine-smelling, rosy parchment, and pulled out a small slip of paper that was enclosed in the proclamation’s binding ribbon. He energetically flicked open the note with his spatulate thumb, and held it out to Fescue, filling the other Halfling’s face with the terse message, tapping his longest digit against the salutation at the top. “See?” he said, almost voraciously, as he was not used to being right and always savored the opportunity to be so, “It says ‘Miss Amanduial,’ not Mister.”

Wrinkling his nose and pulling back from the slip of paper and shoving it aside dismissively. “Probably a clerical error.” He said to both of his bewildered cohorts, calm and collected as usual as he pilfered the message from Spurge’s upraised hand and tucked it neatly beneath the length of ribbon that held the scroll. “Even the Thain makes mistakes…sometimes.” He hastily corrected himself, and Gromwell heartily grinned, though spurge simply snorted. “Anyway,” Fescue Bracegirdle continued, almost drawling fine, classical rhetoric in that operatic voice of his, preaching to the sky, “why would any man lie of such things? No one has reason to hinder our noble course. It is not as if he is the criminal.” Gromwell let loose a good-natured, but obviously forced chuckle at this.

Spurge, on the other hand, looked as if his slow mind had just been rejuvenated by thought. “Maybe ‘e is!” He cried, practically leaping from his grounded position. The hobbit seemed poised, strangely, and impelled to speak voraciously; stabbing a finger like a sword at the man, who had his back turned, and he spoke in a fierce, rasping whisper. But, Fescue waved him aside again, incredulous in the extreme. “Spurge,” he said, like a frustrated educator, “the criminal is a hobbit.” His eyes turned to Snaveling, who seemed to be nervously milling about, and said, with some confidence: “That is not a hobbit.” But, Spurge had not gotten over his sudden burst of luster, and spouted out the only possible explanation he could think of, one that seemed perfectly plausible - to him.

“Maybe he’s wearin’ stilts?”

Fescue did not even hesitate to terminate that theory. “What a ridiculous concept.” He admonished his accomplice, “Surely, this is the innkeeper. Let us find out.” His prognosis was curt, and not to be argued, siding physically with his supervisor, Gromwell gave a stern nod, which followed Fescue’s own, and Spurge shrunk back in defeat, his venture deemed preposterous by Fescue’s sterling logic. Grumbling in an underhanded manner, Spurge followed suit as Fescue turned and leaned over the gaudy fellow and gripping his hand, attempted to extricate him from the floor. The poor hobbit, witty as he was, had nowhere near enough strength in his small arms to arouse the man, so surly Spurge had to grab the man’s other arm. They tugged uselessly for a few moments before the man got up of his own accord, rocking slightly from side to side like one intoxicated, which elicited indignant looks from Spurge and Gromwell. Fescue, though, was polite and socially refined, as usual, presenting himself as a rare find to the man, who looked at him with a most peculiar look plastered on his fair face, which caused Spurge to cough uncomfortably, a bit disconcerted.

“Excuse me,” he began eloquently, “most noble innkeeper of the Green Dragon. Are you well?” This was said with a minimal air of concern, though not doleful concern, or credible concern, but obligatory concern. The hobbit did not let the simple phrase be answered before he plowed on with his prudish yammering. “Your associate here,” he said, indicating Snaveling (who was actually not where he had been, thus rendering Fescue’s auxiliary gesture meaningless), “tells me you’ve had excess liquor, but I am sure that such a respectable fellow is always sober, to some degree; else you would not be able to manage such a reputed, eminent, renowned, and wholly fine establishment.”

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"What else is left for me in this land anymore?" said Cree sadly. Fáinu looked at Cree and felt her sadness emulate from her. He knew that he had been one of the causes of her sadness. There was not much he could now do, save perhaps to offer aid, and that he expected her to decline.

"What would you ask of me?" said Fáinu, "Many sorrows fill your heart, and I know that I contributed to them. Surly I can aid you in healing some of your hurts? Ask of me, and if it is in my power, I shall see it done."

Cree did not move, it was as if she had not been listening and was off in her own little world. Fáinu lent closer to her and with a look of concern he said;

"Cree, Will you hearken to me?" She looked up at him and yet said naught, she seemed now to have been drained of all contentment. Avalon had been a friend and it was hard for her to give up a dear comrade such as her. Fáinu sat back and thought to himself. Cree was filled with sorrow and doubt, distrust and rage. All he could do was be silent.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"So three meals then, one full, two without gravy and one with no veg or gravy and with the steak very rare?"

Aman eyed her four 'customers' warily over her notebook. All four seemed rather shorter than even the average hobbit customer, and one, for whom a rare steak with no vegetables, had been ordered, was so wrapped up in heavy winter clothes, despite the fair weather, that she could barely see it's figure. Not to mention the fact that one of the other customers had an arm across the back of the former's neck: not that this was strange in itself - it was something about the white knuckle grip that was being exerted on the tightly tied scarf around it's neck.

"Actu'lly, can I skip the vegibles as well please, miss?" piped up one of them in a somewhat muffled but still suspiciously squeaky voice.

"Brando! You will ea- I mean..." the high pitched, juvenile female voice deepened itself with difficulty. "I mean, you will eat your veggibles as your mother- erm, as you wife told you to!"

"But I- ow!" There was a thud beneath the table and one of the heavily wrapped figures doubled over, looking up to fiercely reprimand the previous speaker. "Oahh...oh, Tilly Longbottom, I'm gonna tell your mam you did that, that was my ankle..."

Aman cleared her throat subtly, trying not to laugh at the tableau. She knew exactly what was coming next, and could have timed the awkward pause that came before the next, hopelessly predictable line.

"Erm...and can we also order a few beers? Miss Innkeeper? Please?"

Aman regarded the hopeful faces beneath their fake beards and jauntily stuck on moustaches and gave a sigh of mock-sorrow. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," she replied regretfully. "But we just ran out." She eyed the quartet of disguised hobbit youths challengingly to see whether they would press on the matter but instead they sort of deflated and there was a murmur of unsatisfied discussion between them until Aman threw in her ace. "Of course," she said carefully. "For such fine and upstanding gentlemen of the Inn, a most sophisticated and worthy beverage has always been...strawberry fizz?"

The four heads nearly collided as another flurry of muttered discussion ensued before one of the youths, the appointed spokeshobbit, nodded up at Aman. "Right y'are then: three strawberry fizzes it is then."

"Please!" Another hissed.

"Oh, right, yes, three strawberry fizzes please," the spokeshobbit ammended guiltily. "And, eh...and one bowl of water," he added shiftily.

Aman winked, finishing off the order on her pad. "Good choice, young sirs," she said with a flourish and a barely covered pat on the head of the heavily wrapped customer, greeted with a panted thanks which was hastily coughed over by the other three. She made her way across the room, whistling lightly under her breath, until a spoken line arrested her in her tracks.

"...as the owner of this fine establishment..."

Aman froze in mid-stride and spun around slowly to the source of the strange line to see a most peculiar trio of hobbits a few feet away, the most flamboyantly dressed of these half-crouched over a prone figure on the floor and talking to him with some difficulty with as much grace as possible. The Innkeeper squinted at the writing on the envelope in the speaker's hand to read - yes, there it was! - her own name. With a puzzled half-smile half-frown, Aman approached them quickly, slipping her notepad back into her pocket.

"Sorry, gentlemen, there seems to be some-"

A hand on her wrist stopped Aman and she turned, already knowing whose hand it was, to identify Snaveling. He half-rose as she turned, shaking his head shiftily. "Nay, Aman, let it be for-"

Aman didn't catch on and forced her fluttering heart to calm down - he was being absurd. "Don't be ridiculous, Snaveling," she smiled, pulling her hand away as she addressed the hobbits again. "Pardon men, gents, I believe there has been some mistake: I am the Amanaduial, Innkeeper of the Green Dragon. May I ask who it is that seeks me in such a way?"