The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Noinkling]

Well, now, this must be it! thought Tolly Greenhand as his wagon cleared the top of the small rise to the west of the Inn. It was nearing evening, and the lamps had already been lit at the Green Dragon, shining through the thick-paned windows invitingly. His gaffer had told him about the big inn in Bywater. ‘Green Dragon, son, she’s a right fine place for a man to slake his thirst.’ ‘Best ale in the Shire, lad,’ he’d affirmed though to be honest, the old fellow had never been farther east than the Three-farthing Stone. Tolly flicked the reins on his pony’s back, urging him on. ‘Get along, Benny,’ he crooned in a low voice.

The pony’s ears twitched at the sound and he picked up his pace, pulling harder against the harness. The familiar sounds and smells of other horses in the Inn’s stable carried to him. He snorted and tossed his head, wanting to get in on the sweet hay and nosebag of oats that Tolly had promised when the Inn was reached.

‘Whoa up, now!’ the Hobbit called out as they entered the yard and drew near the front door. The fine drizzle rain had abated a bit, and pushing back the hood of his oilskin cape, he took in the Inn at close range. He was about to turn Benny toward the stable, when two lads came bursting through the door, running helter-skelter down the path to the road. Their friendly laughter trailed after them. ‘Wonder what that was all about,’ Tolly murmured to Benny, flicking the reins once more as he guided the pony to the stable. A young lad came out to greet him, taking the reins as Tolly stepped down from the wagon. The price for the pony’s keep was agreed on, and an extra copper penny for the lad to put the wagon in a dry place.

Benny having been seen to, Tolly hurried quickly to the porch of the Inn and eased open the door. The warmth of the place welcomed his entrance. He stood for a few moments taking the great room in. Just as my gaffer described it! he thought, looking delightedly toward the bar and the great fire place. He hung his dripping cloak on an empty peg to the right of the door and hurried to a small table near the fire.

[Tevildo]

Tevildo cautiously eyed the two women and the sleeping cat, pondering what he should do. He would have preferred to eat in privacy, away from the prying eyes of the two-leggeds. But his stomach was growling loudly and the hearty aroma of chicken fat was hard to resist. With his tail rhythmically twitching back and forth, he sidled up to the three bowls, ignoring the saucer of milk and going right to work on the chopped chicken from the stew pot that had been generous flavored with a dollop of gravy.

He had to admit that these little folk knew how to cook. This dish was considerably better than anything he and his mistress had found earlier that week in the Prancing Pony. It looked to be the older woman--the one called Cook--who was in charge of the kitchen and responsible for the various delicacies being taken out to the guests. Tevildo would not stoop to being called "Cook's little pet" as the older tabby evidently had. But he was not unappreciative of someone who showed such skill in the cullinary arts.

Finishing the last of the food in the bowl, Tevildo sat back on his haunches and delicately licked the final morsels from his paws. Then he lay down, curled up contentedly in a small ball, and began to purr loudly, all the while vigorously cleaning his coat with the small barbs of his pink tongue. Once he looked up and seemed to grin at Cook, showing a line of sharp teeth all perfectly matched and suitably sharp.

Once he was satisfied that he was perfectly clean, Tevildo again rose and slipped gingerly between Cook's legs. The older woman was standing in front of the fire and stirring something in a large pot. Tevildo stopped to rub against her ankles and then paraded out of the kitchen, heading purposely down the hallway towards the pantry where he thought he heard the scuffling sounds of mice.

Out in the Common Room, he could hear another familliar voice: that of his mistress and supposed 'owner' who had finally found her way to the Inn.

[piosenniel]

GREEN DRAGON INN FACTS:

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 (played by Envinyatar)

Meriadoc - Stablemaster

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

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.

[piosenniel]

The rainstorm is clearing away; the the evening skies remain overcast.

'Tis a bit chilly with the breeze blowing from the west. It whistles down the Inn chimneys, making the flames in the fireplace dance and waver wildly.

There's a good crowd in the Common Room and the tasty scent of chicken stew and fresh bread coming from the kitchen.

Supper will soon be served.

[starkat]

Gwenneth caught a glimpse of Aman out of the corner of her eye and walked up to her. She set the small boquet next to the innkeeper and headed off to meat Ginger.

I hope I am not too late. I would really like to help. Not seeing her Hobbit firend anywhere, the young elf maid headed for the kitchen. I hope Cook does not get mad at me. Gwenneth knocked on the door and peeked inside.

[Lalwendë]

Jinniver, whose face had softened into tears when Pegram made his cutting speech, began to smile when the two Hobbit lads knocked the contents of the pitcher onto him. She hid her face as best she could beneath her old shawl, her cheeks reddening with suppressed mirth.

Pegram, who had been studiously ignoring the two lads until he got his early, and rather sticky, bath, now pushed his chair back in horror. He drew himself up to his full height but the lads were gone before he could get to them. “Why”, he thought. “I ought to wring their impudent necks for this.” But no words of anger came from his mouth, as he caught sight of his sister, obviously trying to hide her mirth. He was, in quick succession, angry, embarrassed, and finally, hurt.

He made an attempt to brush the dark glutinous ale from his breeches; there was little he could do about the shirt, so he pulled his cloak across the stained area. Feeling the eyes of the other man watching him, he sat back down quietly and attempted a forced smile.

“Of course,” he said, after clearing his throat. “It is to be remembered that Jinniver is a fine nursery woman. A fine woman. And I find it fitting that she has been taken to the hearts of the folk around here.” His words were addressed to the wall, as he could not and would not look anyone in the eye. His nose twitched with hurt pride.

Jinniver felt a little worried after what had happened. Much as she hated her brother’s high handed way with her, she did not like to see anyone’s feelings hurt, not even his. But she was grateful for the moment of peace which the mishap had brought to her. Finally gathering her thoughts after his surprise arrival, she wondered whether he would insist that she come home again, and what she would say to that. This was something she would never consent to, and as she knew it might involve something of a fight, she determined to construct her words carefully.

She kept the shawl over her face and watched him over the top of it, her pale eyes bright, yet a little misty as she thought of the fight she felt sure would be coming. Why her brother could not simply let her be was beyond her. So she may have been foolish when she was young; this she knew all too well, but wasn’t she grown since then? And the world changed?

Pegram’s irritation with his sister’s behaviour began to grow again, and he glowered as he sat facing the wall, thinking about how she was behaving. She was not even dressed appropriately, and was even drinking, in the common room of a tavern. The least she could do was seek a private parlour where a woman might sit respectably.

He had suspected this from the moment he received the letter that very morning. He had been at the farm, arranging an early morning delivery for their father, and had intercepted the messenger. As soon as he noticed her lodgings were in a tavern, he had saddled up his horse and ridden off as fast as he could go, dropping the letter into his father’s surprised hands. There was no way Pegram would even contemplate any risk to his sister, not since what had happened to her. Unable to articulate what he felt, he turned his head towards her, with a look of contempt.

[Envinyatar]

The man was angry and indignant, Derufin could see. But not just from the foolish antics of the two Hobbits. Though, he has every right to be thought Derufin, shaking his head in disapproval of Ferrin and Fallon’s handling of Pegram’s comments. Most of the man’s resentments seemed to focus on his sister. Derufin, having listened to him and watched his actions, did not feel her to be in physical danger. And she seemed capable enough, resolved enough, to take care of the verbal assaults herself.

‘Glad to have met a member of Jinniver’s family,’ Derufin said, rising from his chair and nodding courteously at both of them. ‘I’ll take my leave of you good folk, if I may.’ Both pairs of eyes were on him, and Jinniver nodded back. ‘I’ll see you, then, tomorrow, Jinniver. And I’ll have the lads rounded up to help you.’

He hurried to the kitchen, calling out for Cook. She and Ginger stood near the stove looking down at something – a cat. The feline had apparently finished eating and now rubbed itself against Cook’s ankles as she stirred the stew pot. He grinned seeing her smile of pleasure at a meal well appreciated. Derufin watched as the cat exited the kitchen, soft paws padding across the floor in a determined manner.

‘New mouser?’ he asked, sidling up to Cook and looking longingly at the rich concoction of chicken and taters and vegetables. Cook hmmmmphd in mock irritation and gave him a generous taste from the stirring spoon. He winked at Ginger who was just starting to slice up the bread in thick chunks for the baskets on the table. ‘I was just wondering,’ he began. ‘No, hoping, really, that you could see your way to filling a small crock with some of the stew and letting me have a loaf of bread to go with it.’

‘A whole crock?’ asked Cook, eyeing Derufin’s tall, lithe frame. She poked him in the side, cocking an eyebrow up at him. ‘You intend to eat this all yourself,’ she went on. ‘Wouldn’t want to see it go to waste.’ She fetched a small pot with a tight fitting lid and began ladling the stew into it. Ginger, at a nod from Cook, wrapped one of the crusty, whole loaves in a clean towel to go with it. Derufin had opened one of the cupboards and found the plates of cookies put away for dessert. ‘How about a few of these?’ he asked. ‘Best spice and raising cookies in the Shire,’ he added, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek as a large handful found its way onto a clean napkin for transport.

‘Now, none of that buttering me up,’ sputtered Cook, adding a small jar of strawberry jam into the lidded basket she had gotten out to put the pot, bread, and cookies in. ‘Mind you don’t get that bread wet if the rain starts up. Put it under your cloak.’ He gave her another peck on the opposite cheek and fairly ran out the back door.

‘Where’s he going off to,’ asked Ginger as Cook closed the door behind him. Cook shook her head, chuckling as she walked back to the table to help with the bread. ‘Gone off to see his lady love . . . Mistress Zimzi. Going to bribe old Amaranthas into letting him spend some time with her, I reckon. Lucky for him the old lady is quite fond of my chicken stew.’