The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[piosenniel]

TIME IN THE SHIRE

It is now just a little after noon.

The sky remains quite grey but the rain is starting to lessen a little . . .

Lunch is still being served: Thick, savory bean with ham soup; baskets of fresh baked bread, thick sliced. Platters of cheese to pile on the bread with mustard and pickles.

A hearty lunch for a cold day . . . and all washed down with ale, cider, tea, or water.

And for dessert - hot apple crisp with a flaky pastry crust.

[Noinkling]

Benat had many questions stirring in his mind. He shifted in his chair as if trying to move what was most important to the fore. He simply had not thought that he would not find Mr. Baggins when he came to the Shire. His Granda had told him many wonderful stories of the small fellow, a main theme of each being that though the Hobbit was game for an adventure, still his heart seemed to lie in the home he’d come from. The Shire. He’d really hoped to find Bilbo and ask him whatever happened when he and the Dwarves left the safety of the Carrock and ventured into the Dark Wood and then on to the Lonely Mountain. And had there been any more adventures after that one, he wondered?

He came out of his reverie and excused himself for his rudeness. ‘Please,’ he said standing up a bit and waving his hand toward the empty chair at his table. ‘Do sit down with me for a while. I do have many questions I would ask of you. I just don’t know where to begin them.’

Ginger had fetched a pitcher of ale by this time, and a small mug for Cook and now poured each of them a foaming drink. She’d also managed a rather large ham bone from the kitchen and gave it to Cullen, who thumped his tail heartily at the gift.

Raising his mug to Cook, Benat took a healthy swallow, then began his story, starting with the arrival of the wizard, the Hobbit, and the Dwarves to his Granda’s house in mid-summer many years ago. He backed the story up just a bit before going on, saying that this strange group of travelers had just escaped being trapped by wolves in a most amazing way – the eagles had come to their rescue. It was after this that they had fled to the Carrock and the safety of his Granda’s house. They had stayed barely a day, long enough for his Granda to hear of their adventures to that point and the proposed journey to be undertaken. Then off they’d gone, on horses leant them – east to the Dark Forest and beyond. It had pleased his Granda no end that Mister Bilbo had been such an appreciative dinner guest. And noting that the Hobbit quite enjoyed the fresh bread spread thick with his Granda’s bees own honey, the old man had always meant to send Mister Baggins a pot or two to remind him of their meeting.

‘And well, here, now, I am. Bringing the honey from my Granda’s bee hives. He got too old to do it himself, and besides, we rarely travel beyond the borders of our own little land. And now, besides, he’s passed away, a number of years now, leaving me to find out the rest of the story.’

Benat sighed and shook his great head sorrowfully.

[piosenniel]

Cook and Benat

Cook listened quietly as the man spoke. Mister Bilbo’s adventure had come to her in dribbles and drabbles she recalled. Mostly stories from the older Hobbits, and it was difficult to separate the facts from the fiction. And to be honest, much of the ‘fact’ seemed like grand storytelling themselves. Wolves and Eagles, goblins and murderous spiders. And treasure . . . and above all, a Dragon with fiery breath, jeweled scales, and great claws and teeth and vast wings. And the ring, of course, found in the deep cave . . . the magic ring . . . the one that brought all the trouble later for Mister Frodo.

‘I won’t pretend to know the answer to your question of what happened to Mister Bilbo on his adventure. Though bits and pieces have woven themselves into the memory of the Shire, there is much of the story he never told us.’

Benat’s face, at first hopeful, now looked crestfallen once again.

‘He never told us outright, I should say. And what he did say has got all twisted up in the telling. Sorry to say many of my relatives thought kindly of the old fellow, but also figured him for an odd duck . . . what with his wanderings and all.’ She leaned forward, looking Benat in the eye. ‘You did know his nephew caught the adventuring bug. Went off with the same wizard and that ring his uncle found. And I think I heard there was a Dwarf with him, too. And one or two of the Fair Folk. A spider was in there somewhere, and the eagles. Very strange family, the Baggins . . . with respect to their travels.’ ‘But for the most part, kindly thought of,’ she pronounced.

Cook rubbed her chin in a considering manner. ‘You know,’ she said, nodding her head as the thought came to her. ‘there is someone I could introduce you to. His name is Sam . . . Samwise Gamgee. He’s our Mayor. Traveled with Mister Frodo. Now I know he has a book, that Mister Bilbo started and Mister Frodo continued. And I’m pretty sure it tells of their adventures.’ She nodded her head again. ‘You spend the night here . . . I think we can fit you into one of our large rooms . . . put two mattresses together on the floor; that oughta do it. Then tomorrow, I’ll send a note up to Mister Sam, telling him about you, and asking if I can bring you up. What do you say to that?’

[Mithalwen]

Mithalwen reflected that the seeming catastrophe was recovering itself remarkably quickly. Mr Headstrong was positively purring with pleasure at Marigold's delight in his gifts. It was evident that Marigold had suffered no major trauma and was happy in Caity's company under Falco's benevolent eye. Already more people had arrived to distract the inn staff from the incident andfro that she was grateful - though she must make a point of thanking whoever made the poultice.

She curled her long body into the next windowseat, near enough to tend Marigold swiftly if needed but far enough not to have to engaged in conversation with Mr Headstrong - who although he had calmed down, still evidently had no great opinion of her or Snaveling.

She could not blame him. She had arrived as a chance visitor barely 36 hours before and aswell as gate crashing a wedding, she had endangered the life of a hobbit child. Why had she stayed? Aeglos' shoe had been replaced, and he was rested. As for the weather - well she had journeyed in worse before and would do so again. If she were honest with herself she would have to admit, that she had become intrigued by the people she had met here. However her interest was beginning to blend with interference. She began to realise that there might be good reasons why the eldar did not mingle overmuch with mortals.

She sighed and watched a particular raindrop make its course down the pain. She rested her head against the glass and thought of her own home at Mithlond. There she would regard it as a good day to get on with her work. Maybe jsut a walk to blow the cobwebs away. Work... perhaps it mightbe worth starting some if she was not going to get on with her journey directly - not creating from new perhaps but perhaps a few repairs. She had soem money still but baling out snaveling had been an unexpected drain on her resources.

Snaveling! A thought that had been on the edge of her consciousness at the moment that Felarof had bolted, now came clearly into her mind. Felarof was as fine as just about any horse Mithalwen had seen in an age of the world. He would have been noble enough to bear an elf lord and mighty enough to carry even a man of Numenor of old. But Snaveling had made a gift of him. Snaveling whose garments combined shabby finery with borrowed robes, Snaveling who had given the impression he would have gone hungry this day had it not been for her clearing his tab. She herself did not bring all her wealth a journeying admittedly, but it seemed bizarre that a man who could not afford to eat was making such kingly gifts.

Too late, did she remember Snaveling's proximity. She closed her mind and looked up to see him studying her, as he sat in a chair a little way away. She knew he could have read her thought if he had so chosen. He was a dunadan, whether or not he chose to describe himself as thus. But how much had he read of her thought? Maybe he his glance had been prompted by her sudden movement. She sprang to her feet with the pretext of fetching a drink for Marigold. She fetched tea for herself, and forcing herself to seem natural she presented Snaveling with a cup. " Tea, Tar Corondir" , her voice was steady but she was unable to tell from his eyes how much of her mind he had discerned.

[Noinkling]

The grin on his face was so wide at Cook’s plan that it nearly split his face in two. Several of the Small Folk nearby moved further away, he noted, with looks of alarm on their faces. They were somewhat assured when he closed his mouth and nodded in a friendly manner toward Cook and them.

It was indeed his great grin that had sent a mild chill through them. His teeth were large, though not overly so for his size, and his great sharp canines seemed particularly wicked to them as they flashed in the revealing smile. One of them whispered to his companions that it reminded him of the bear head he’d seen mounted in the Common Room in Bree’s Inn. ‘The monster set upon the lambs of one of the Bree farmers near Archet. Spring it was. The snow hardly off the ground. A number of those from the surrounding farms gathered together to take care of the problem,’ he said, eyeing Benat quickly. ‘Killed a couple of them with his mighty paws,’ he went on. ‘The got the beast, though.’ He was about to make further comment when a low grumble . . . no, more of a warning growl intruded on his story. The hair on the back of the Hobbit’s neck stood up, and he eased his gaze toward the source of the sound. Benat was giving him a considering look and his large dog had come to stand by his master’s chair and was looking pointedly at the now quaking Hobbit. The little fellow excused himself with some quavering excuse that he had things to see to, as did his tablemates, who hurried out the door without looking back.

Benat turned his attention back to Cook, being careful not to grin too widely again. ‘That is a most generous offer on your part, Mistress Bunce. And I would gladly take you up on it.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I feel as if I owe you something for your kindness. Something beyond the price of a room and meals. Is there some task I can set my hand to that would help out here at the Inn?’

[Envinyatar]

‘I think perhaps that we should be heading back,’ Zimzi said, nudging Derufin with her elbow. ‘We’ve a roomful of mathoms to clear away if you hope ever to have a meal cooked in our own kitchen.’ She pulled her shawl about her shoulders, watching him as he drained the last of his mug.

Derufin grinned impishly at her as he leaned back in his chair. ‘You cook? You actually cook?’ Before the last words were out of his mouth he jumped quickly from his chair, nearly knocking it over. Zimzi had a dangerous glint in her eye and a soup bowl at hand.

She laughed at his ungraceful exit form the chair. ‘You didn’t really expect me to crash this on your thick skull, did you . . . my dear?’

The others at the table egged Derufin on. It was after all a grey, rainy day, and a little entertainment was appreciated. But he disappointed them by apologizing for his rash remark . . . though he meant it only in jest, he assured her.

‘Cold rations for you today, Mister Derufin,’ joked Gil, his friends joining in on his laughter.

‘Not a bad idea, Master Gil,’ Zimzi returned winking at the Hobbit, who blushed a bright crimson at her attention. ‘But, I’m afraid it will be cold rations for both of us if we do not get back and get those things stowed away.’

They said their good-byes and headed out toward the groundskeeper’s cottage. It was sprinkling on and off, and Zimzi draped her shawl up over her head. Soon they had reached the little path that led from the stable to the cottage and turned up it. They were nearing one of the little patches of flower garden when Zimzi stopped suddenly, a perplexed look on her face.

‘What do you see?’ asked Derufin, narrowing his eyes at the scene before them. It all looked about the same to him as when they’d left.

‘That tree there,’ Zimzi said, pointing to the hawthorn that stood with branches outstretched over the new little plantings. ‘I’m very sure it wasn’t there when we left the cottage this morning.’

Derufin shrugged his shoulders. He honestly could not recall a tree or no tree, for that matter. ‘Well, it looks harmless enough,’ he commented, putting his hands on her shoulders and propelling her toward the covered porch. ‘The rain’s picking up. Let’s get inside.’ He took one last look back at the hawthorn. It looked normal enough . . .

[Sett]

After a dream of much pleasure for Galither he woke at the sound of mugs clattering there way up stairs. The echo travelled up to his room like waves each note hitting the walls. He heard a girl humming along to the noise as she too made her way to the rooms. The girl knocked on Galither’s door to inquire what he wanted off the tray.

“I will take whatever you may so choose to offer me kind lady” Galither replied.

“Well how about savoury beans with ham soup with some bread, cheese, mustard and pickles” the woman said

“Well a very hearty meal to say the least. Okay I will take it all, as my body needs all the strength it can get if I am to meet my men. May I ask ma’am what is your name for I wish to know my healer.”

“Buttercup Brownlock” the women replied

“A very pretty name you have there. It seems all shire folk share beauty in their names.”

She poured out the soup into a bowl for Galither with the rest of his meal. He sat up to eat the hot soup and soft bread. He spread all the toppings onto the bread and then sank his teeth into meal. The girl then left the room and Galither was left to finish off the filling meal. He was really enjoying the succulent soup as it spread through his body and hit his stomach with the softest of touches it was like his love Esmerelda was touching him. It was so heavenly and tranquil that he feels back of the soft pillow and returned to the dreams of old very swiftly.

[samsmyhero]

Denegal and Falowik had passed out into the inn yard in search of Uien. They had gotten no further than the pump under which Denegal had sluiced himself earlier, when their erstwhile companion, Galither, appeared. Slumped over the neck of his horse, he seemed barely able to hold on. Indeed, when he reached the yard, he fell from the horse in a swoon.

The two men quickly went to Galither's side, Meriadoc running over to join them. Feeling for a pulse, Falowik opined "I see no wounds, and his hearbeat is strong and steady. I think he's just fallen unconscious."

"I know when he arrived earlier, he and his comrades had secured a room for themselves." Denegal said, touching his palm to Galither's brow. "He doesn't have a fever. A pity his friends have gone off. Perhaps we should carry him to his room and make sure someone more knowledgeable in healing sees to him. "

"As it happens, Uien is a healer." Falowik replied. " Let's get him inside where it's warm and dry and then we'll fetch her."

So saying, the three hoisted Galither by the arms and legs and carried him into the inn and up to his room. He was heavy, even for the three, and they had to somewhat drag him across the common room floor. Meriadoc called to Buttercup to come along with them so that she also could ascertain his condition. They laid him on one of the beds in the room, still unconscious.

"I'll take it from here, gentlemen." Buttercup shooed them from the room. "if I need anything, I'll let you know."

"My companion, Uien the elf, may be arriving shortly - she is a skilled healer and may be of assistance." Falowik profferred. Buttercup nodded her head in understanding.

Falowik hurried down the stairs, followed by Denegal. "I wonder what that was all about?" Denegal pondered out loud.

"It's certainly mysterious, Galither leaving the inn so suddenly and then reappearing only to fall at our feet, practically. If it's love that's responsible, I'd say your fellow countryman can match you tale for tale with some sad story of love lost." Falowik replied with a smile.

Denegal crossed his arms over his chest as they stepped out once more into the yard and walked quickly towards the stable. The rain was beginning to let up, but the wind was still brisk. Denegal was truly glad he had a warm place to sleep for the night. "Well, Falowik, perhaps if he comes to, tonight we can each tell our respective tale of woe and see which is the sadder - you and your love can be the judge!" Denegal let out a chuckle which quickly turned into a short curse as he carelessly stepped in a puddle, soaking his feet up to the ankles.

"Oh well, at least your shoes won't be ruined - they can't be any worse than they are!" Falowik laughed heartily as he looked at Denegal's drenched feet. "Come, let's hurry out of this rain and find Uien"

[Huan]

He’d come north to Bree from Lond Daer Enedh, a once great harbour of his people. Now its ancient ruins were but a fading reminder of the welcoming haven it once had been for the ships of Westernesse. Anyopâ had followed the example of his brothers and left home when he was thirty to explore the lands north. He knew in due time he would return to his family holding and turn his hand to the family business. Colors and shapes from the places he visited would then be woven into the settings he designed for the jewels his brothers crafted. He would marry, and have many sons. They would learn the craft from him and then leave, themselves, for a while . . . keeping the tradition and passing it on.

But this was his time. And now his travels brought him west on The Great Road, into the green, rolling lands of the Shire. At the Floating Log, he’d made the acquaintance of a merchant dealing in herbs and spices. The Halfling was a garrulous fellow and the miles flew by as he pointed out the sights along the way. There were a number of stops at various little places off the track, with goods exchanged for other items which were in turn exchanged at other places for other things . . . ‘mathoms’, a new word he’d learned, these objects were often called. It was rare, he found, that coin was exchanged for what the merchant offered.

The rain had begun this day, as soon as they’d set out. It was after noon, now, and the Halfling and man sat hunched over on the seat of the cart, their cloaks pulled tight about them, wide-brimmed hats keeping the drops from their chilled faces. Soon they came to Bywater and were even now turning down the muddy path to The Green Dragon Inn. The merchant pulled up to the stable. He seemed to be a familiar face there, as the stableman, a young Halfling called Meriadoc called to him by name and took the reins, talking low to the ponies as he held them still while the two got down.

Anyopâ and his companion headed in to the Inn, pausing briefly on the verandah to shake the water from their cloaks and hats. ‘Get us a seat,’ the merchant said, nodding toward a table by the crackling fire. ‘I’ll find us some food and drink.’ Anyopâ’s gaze took in the occupants in the great room. What a myriad of people! He sat down to wait for the Halfling, letting the snatches of conversations, the rustle of clothes, the scuff of boots and bare feet on the wooden floor and the swirl of colors and shapes wash over him in a welcoming arrangement of sight and sound.

[littlemanpoet]

Falowik and Denegal splashed through the downpour to the stable, grateful for the cozy dryness and its odiferousness.

"There you are, Laurëatan! You have been a while!" Uien, idly brushing Kirsúl, looked at Falowik with a smile, her large blue eyes taking in him and the stranger. "You have brought a friend, I see."

"This is Denegal. I met him in the Common room in the Inn," Falowik explained.

Uien nodded her head and regarded Denegal steadily, looking into him as much as upon; an Elf, she had to will herself not to look at one so, and did not think of it now. "I greet you, friend Denegal."

Denegal stared dumbly.

"Um," said Falowik, "he is from Gondor. And is in need of more serviceable footwear. Denegal?"

Denegal took a deep breath as though coming out of deep thought. "I am sorry. I have had little to do with Elves. 'Tis no wonder you name her your loadstone, Falowik."

Falowik blushed and coughed into his hand, but Uien laughed lightly. "Let me see those shoes of yours, Denegal."

"Well, they are not really my shoes, thank goodness...." he quickly related his story of footware misfortune.

Uien said, "Falowik works leather and I can sew well enough. Once the shower lets up, we can shop for leather and fit you well enough. You can pay us in the meantime with a tale from Gondor."

"We might as well do so in the Common room," said Falowik sheepishly, "for in all the coming and going, I forgot to settle our bill."

Kirsúl whinnied loudly. Uien turned to him. "Rest a little while longer, my friend. It is pouring out. Soon we shall be on our way." Kirsúl subsided and brushed Uien's face with his nose. "To the common room then, Denegal?" Uien asked.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Goodness me, child, what happened to your head?"

All in the small corner of the room turned around to see Aman standing behind them, her arms crossed. Sure as ever, sun had come after the rain, and the light from the window under which Marigold sat seemed to spotlight the Innkeeper, highlighting on the light, elusive golds in her hair and glinting off the horseshoe necklace which was visible due to the heart neckline of her pale blue dress. She noticed Snaveling's eyes fall on it and hover there for a brief second, squinting at the necklace, before his eyes moved up to her face. Aman remained standing still, eyebrows raised. Tapping one foot lightly on the floor, she made a small decisive sound and sighed, before she smiled with tired eyes at Snaveling and Mithalwen, wrinkling her nose a little so that the pale freckles danced. "What?" she asked slowly. "You both look like naughty schoolchildren caught in the act."

Mithalwen laughed, grinning at Aman as she rose. "Good morning, Aman - or should I say good afternoon?" she added with a wink.

"Good afternoon indeed." Ruby's voice huffed from behind them as the hobbit bustled past Aman to clear the table in front of Snaveling of it's debris. "Someone," she continued ominously, wiping the table. "Someone had a little too much to drink last night, courtesy of those no-good brothers of Zimz, I'll be bound; and consequently spent this morning sleeping off the night before..." she trailed off and set Aman with a disapproving look that would rival Cook's very own collection of choice matronly expressions. Aman raised one eyebrow and returned her gaze steadily, but she couldn't hide the tired rings around her green eyes, and eventually had to break the gaze when she stifled a yawn. Ruby looked satisfied and gave an impish, 'told-you-so' smile as she continued clearing the table. Aman glared at her then asked Mithalwen if she could join them. The elf accepted gladly and Aman made her way around the table past Snaveling to sit on the padded bench beside Marigold, under the window - as she moved past Snaveling, the back of her dress brushed his legs and a whiff of freshly washed hair caught his attention, and his curiosity. The Innkeeper wasn't prone to taking a shower or bath in the morning...

Ruby, by nature, was not quite spiteful; but the hobbit did have a certain sense of humour that rather enjoyed Aman's evident discomfort. The hobbit server was not finished yet - spinning balletically on her heel, her hands full of china and glass, she left a few parting shots: business as usual. "Several people called for you this morning, Aman - one delivering a letter, another with a message, he says, and one other who was asking if he could help about the place, although I think...I think Cook is dealing with that request..." she trailed off, looking around the crowded Common room. Aman's gaze fell on the certain individual who Ruby was looking and her eyes widened - the man was a giant! Looking alarmed, she glanced at Ruby for an explanation. The hobbit shrugged, a hopeless expression on her face. "He asked for you earlier, but then, he also asked for various other strange characters...coffee?"

Aman raised an eyebrow and grinned properly at Ruby. "Thank you for that insight, Ruby." She paused, she added, "Oh, and yes, please, coffee would be perfect. What sort of characters?"

Ruby tipped her head onto one side, thinking. "Well, he mentioned something 'bout dwarves...and the white wizard..." she clicked her fingers and beamed. "And was askin' about Mr Bilbo Baggins!"

Aman blinked. "Bilbo? Why on earth-"

Ruby shrugged unhelpfully again, the china cups clinking musically against each other as she moved away. "Who knows, Aman - like you say, all sorts..." she called over her shoulder, chuckling to herself. Aman watched her go for a moment, then shook her head and rubbed her eyes, turning back to Marigold. Concern replaced tiredness as she saw again the fresh blood on the girl's forehead, and she raised one hand to it, tipping the girl's chin with her other hand so that she could see better. "Goodness, Marigold, how did you manage that, you silly thing?"

Marigold giggled at Aman's choice of words, then answered, "I fell off your horse, Falfar...Folaro...Felfalo-"

"Felarof," Aman corrected. Although she did not turn around, she sensed Snaveling freeze up. Continuing her inspection of the little girl's head, she made a face, then continued, "Why on earth were you all the way up on Felarof, Marigold? I was under the impression both my horses were snug in their stalls..."

The hobbit girl squirmed slightly, avoiding Aman's eyes. "I...I wanted to see what it felt like. 'Cos," she rushed on quickly, wanting to justify herself. "'Cos he's such a lovely horse, so pretty, and after all, you can't keep all of these mysterious gifts to yourself..." she trailed off coyly, giggling. Aman let go of her chin and looked Marigold in the eyes, smiling - the little girl's amusement was delightful, but she was somewhat confused, to say the least.

"Mysterious gifts? Why, I don't think I've had any of those for a while..." she answered, scratching her head comically as if thinking. Marigold nodded, her curls tossing lightly, spun to gold in the light of the rain-drenched sun, and she wagged a finger at the woman in her best childish impression of a hobbit goodwife. "Nice try, young lady," she reprimanded Aman sternly, doing a startlingly good impression of Vinca. "We all know who gave you Falforo-"

"Felarof," Aman corrected automatically. She looked Marigold dead in the eyes. "And who exactly would that be?"

Marigold pursed her lips, raising her finger to them.

Aman sighed, then leant down, beckoning the little girl to whisper it into her ear. The little hobbit lass leant forward conspiratorially, her lips tickling Aman's ear, her breath warm against the Innkeeper's skin. "Your lover!" she whispered breathily.

Aman's head shot backwards, her eyes wide. "My what?"

Marigold giggled delightedly and clapped her hands in glee, then beckoned Aman back down again. The Innkeeper leant forward, now almightily confused, to hear Marigold's account of this incredible character who had now entered her life. Marigold cupped her hand to Aman's ear and continued, this time in a whisper loud enough for both Mithalwen and Snaveling to hear perfectly well. "Your lover! You have a love, but it has to be a secret; he's wildly in love with you, but sends you gifts from afar to express his devotion for you. A Gondorian ranger, deeply in love with a beautiful Rohirrim maiden..." she clasped her hands to her chest melodramatically and swooned.

The action was so overdone and comical that both Mithalwen and Aman couldn't help but burst out laughing. Snaveling, Aman noted, managed only a sort of strained smile. Aman regained her breath and tickled Marigold gently. "And the identity of my secret Gondorian? Tell me or I'll tickle you to death!"

Marigold laughed wildly as Aman's fingers wiggled their way around her stomach, batting against the Innkeeper's grasp as she squirmed. Mithalwen joined in and all three of them were soon laughing, before Marigold finally elicited her answer.

"Snaveling!"

Aman's tickling faltered and stopped abruptly as she stared at Marigold, her laughter halting. "Sn...Snaveling?" she stammered.

Marigold nodded, swinging her feet childishly on the seat. "Yup yup yup! I know it's him, 'cos he told us it was!"

"Aman-" Snaveling began, as Aman turned to him in confusion and outrage.

"Your Gondorian lover! Tar-Coriander!" Marigold crowed delightedly.

No-one corrected the little girl this time, and there was an awkward pause as Aman stared at Snaveling in confusion and hurt, and the silence that reigned was really anything but golden: it was a murky and dark shade of confusion, splattered with patches of scarlet-shivering hurt. None of the three adults spoke for a moment, before Snaveling began.

"Aman, I didn't tell her-"

"Coffee!" Ruby's singsong voice broke the awkwardness along with the merry clatter of china cups on the tray. Aman and Mithalwen both leapt around to face her, and Aman's face broke into a practised smile as she stood to take the tray from Ruby, thanking her profusely. Ruby winked and leant in conspiratorially, not unlike little Marigold. "Take the edge off your hangover, Miz Aman," she murmured, tapping the side of her nose with her forefinger.

Aman smiled weakly and sipped the strong coffee gratefully as Marigold began to chatter vivaciously again about Felarof and the other 'horsies', taking the edge off the awkward silence rather than Aman's supposed headache. Mithalwen glanced at her carefully, but turned her attention to distracting Marigold, chattering back to her patiently.

Snaveling's eyes didn't leave Aman's face.

[piosenniel]

Cook sets a task for Benat

‘Something you can do, eh?’ Cook took another sip of her ale and ran some chores needed doing through her mind. She wondered if the man fished or hunted, but then recalled what Ginger had said about his not eating any meats. Well, all for the best anyway. If she sent him off to the woods or the stream there were sure to be reports of a marauding giant looking to harm the good folk of the Shire. The shiriff and his men were sure to be called up and it would be an interminable time before the whole misunderstanding was unraveled. No, she should keep him on the Inn grounds . . . less apt to be trouble that way.

Her face suddenly brightened as a thought came to her. There were a number of large, downed trees near the groundskeeper’s cottage. They’d been used for the repairs on the place before Derufin and Zimzi had moved in. Perhaps Benat could see to getting them to the Inn’s back yard and he and that other fellow . . . now what was his name? - the one with the missing left boot - they could buck and split them for the stove and fireplaces.

Calling for a wee refill for the both of them, she posed her proposition to Benat . . .

[Mithalwen]

One disaster averted another created thought Mithalwen, she had forgotten in the aftermath of Marigold's escapade, that noone had corrected her misapprehension. Was now the time? "Marigold dear... I don't think you have got that quite right" she said clearly...and was then stymied. She did not feel free to say that she believed Snaveling's heart was engaged elsewhere. She looked helplessly at Snaveling. "Wht an imagination you have but I think your bump has muddled you - and you are meant to be resting not getting overexcited may be you should rest in your room"

"But.... but... " started Marigold ..

"Only goats butt, Marigold" said Mithalwen quoting an exasperated hobbit mother she had overheard yesterday at the wedding party. Then her expression softened, " You look as if you have been dragged though a hedge backwards. Lets take your new clothes up to your room and get you tidied up. You can choose something to wear, then you can come back down and show Mr Headstrong how pretty you look, ? "

She hoped she wasn't being cowardly but she felt Aman and Snaveling might prefer not to have spectators..

[samsmyhero]

Denegal had been quite overawed by the sight of Uien. For one so recently bruised by the capricious bludgeoning of love, he looked every bit ready to fall head over heels once more. He was barely able to stammer his way through a brief explanantion of his slippers, hoping in the dim light of the stables that the blush he felt suffusing his face was not readily apparent. Barely taking in the fact that Falowik and Uien themselves were offering to make new boots for him, he awkwardly turned, ramming his shoulder into the hay manger, as the three proceeded back to the inn.

Upon entering the common room, Falowik went in search of one of the servers, to settle his bill. Denegal stood uncomfortably at the elf's side, tongue tied and not knowing what to say. Sensing his discomfort, Uien gestured to an empty table nearby. "Why don't we sit at ease while we wait for Falowik? I'm sure he won't be long.”

Denegal slid gratefully onto the bench, and cleared his throat nervously as Uien sat beside him. “I’m sorry, . . . but, I’ve never spoken to an elf before. Actually, I’ve never even seen an elf before, that is, besides the queen, and then only from far off. I mean, it’s not as if I’d have spoken to her or anything . . . “ His voice trailed off. “What I mean,” he tried again,” is, what do I, er, call you?” Risking a quick glance at her face, he saw the various contortions one usually makes when trying not to laugh. Dismayed at his total inability to speak sensibly, Denegal returned his eyes to the table top and stared woodenly at a knothole in the surface.

“Please, friend, call me Uien, for that is my name.” The beautiful elf placed one of her slender, elegant hands on his arm, and immediately, a warmth spread out from the touch, calming the young man and quieting his nerves. Denegal immediately felt at ease with his new companion and finally found his tongue.

“Uien, then. I want to thank you and Falowik for your generous offer.” He reflected that probably not many men went shod in boots made by elven kind.” I hope I’ll be able to repay you somehow. You asked for a tale of Gondor, but any story I might be able to tell would surely be poor recompense for any favor. I’m afraid I myself have no skill in the weaving of a good yarn, although I do know a funny joke or two.” Here he paused, it suddenly occurring to him that said jokes were probably not of the sort to tell to a woman of any race. “ But I’m sure they would bore you.” He hurried on. “And of my own life, there’s little enough to tell; it’s been a quiet one for the most part.” Denegal recalled his earlier jest with Falowik, that he and Galither should recount their tales of love and allow Uien to judge whose was better. But now, in her presence, he felt a great reluctance to tell a tale that would surely paint him a fool.

Falowik returned to the table and sat down. “Well, that’s taken care of! Now, shall we have our payment first, or find some leather and get to work?” He looked inquiringly at Uien.

[Tevildo]

She was a slim, rag-tag of a hobbit girl who looked more like a boy. Camille wore crumpled brown breeches and a tattered shirt that had two buttons missing from the bottom. The pants were several inches too short, but they were the only ones she had. Her thick mop of brown curls was also cropped quite short, which made her look even more like a lad. She had slipped in through the back entrance of the Inn at a moment when Cook and the other kitchen helpers had run out to see what had happened to Marigold. She scampered quickly through the kitchen and headed for the door that led into the Common Room.

Camille padded silently into the Common Room, observed by no one with all the hubub going on, and slid down behind the bar, crouching low and hiding. The aroma from the noonday middle still hung heavy in the air. Her stomach growled in frantic protest. She was tired and hungry, oh so hungry, but she had no pennies in her pocket to buy even a hunk of bread. Worse than that, there were two others waiting at home equally as hungry.

She could see that many guests were finishing up their lunches. Camille considered the possibility of whisking something off someone's plate when they weren't looking or perhaps going back to the kitchen to sift through the garbage bins. She was quite good at both those things. She was about to run out and try to snatch two slices of cheese that had been sitting on someone's plate when she looked over and saw the scene that centered on Marigold. The girl had evidently been hurt and everyone was crowding about her with offers of food, gifts, and greetings. What a lucky lass! Camille could not remember the last time anyone had given her anything other than a cuff on the head from a farmer who was angry when she was caught red-handed stealing eggs. Staring over and seeing the pile of dresses, her heart sank down to her toes. What she would give to own one dress, just one, that was half as lovely as the ones she was looking at now.

Camille watched mesmerized as the beautiful Elf gathered up the dresses and gently began to guide Marigold toward the stairwell, letting the lass lean on her arm for help in walking. As soon as it looked as if the hobbit would have trouble climbing the tall staircase, the Elf set down the dresses over the handrail, picked up the hobbit child in her arms, and continued walking upstairs. She was presumably planning to return in a minute and retrieve the clothing.

Slipping out from behind the bar, Camille made her way to the base of the staircase. What beautiful, beautiful clothes! Just like the ones her mother told her about that she had once worn in her younger days before things had turned so bad. Camille reached out and fingered the lovely green skirt. Almost without knowing what she was doing, Camille picked up the dress and tucked it inside her bag. She was not the kind of hobbit who normally stole things, except for food when she was desperately hungry. But she told herself the lass had so many pretty dresses, she surely wouldn't mind if one got lost. Yet somehow she knew that she had better hide the dress from her mother who might not see it quite that way.

Heaving the bag over her shoulder, she ran back into the kitchen, stopping for a moment to sift through a pile of peelings that had been left to the side of the table when someone had been interrupted in rolling out a pie. She found the remnents of two apples, both brown and shrivelled, and stuffed these inside her bag. She had to get something to bring home. Then she raced into the pantry and, surveying the shelves, found a loaf of bread that she quickly tucked under her arm.

Suddenly, without warning, she heard noises from the room outside. It must be Cook and her helpers returning to the kitchen. Camille's heart beat wildly. There was no possibility of her making an escape without being seen. For the past week, she had lied to her mother and said that she had earned the pennies and the food by doing laundry for a farmer in the neighborhood. Camille wasn't really afraid of being scolded or even cuffed. But what if they told her mother that she had stolen a dress and some food? She flattened herself against the wall and waited, hoping that no one would see her and she could slip outside later after everyone had left.

[Noinkling]

Cullen ferrets out Camille whom he thinks is a boy child

While his master spoke with the little woman, Cullen lay near them, his back resting comfortably against the wall. His great head lay on his crossed paws, his large dark eyes following the movement of the small female who’d first served his master. He quite liked her, Cullen did, she had a wellspring of life and light that shown in her freckled face. And she wasn’t afraid of him; in fact, he could sense that she liked him, too. She was drawing farther away from where he lay, and he raised his head to watch her. She’d gone to a door and was passing through it.

Cullen swung his grizzled head up at Benat. He was still talking to the older woman. And she had poured him another cup of ale. Benat could drink deep, he wondered if the woman knew that. It might be a long time before the conversation was done . . . or the woman lay sleeping on the table. Cullen curled his lips up in a smile. He’d seen that happen in other places they’d passed through.

He waited patiently, but Ginger did not reappear. With a low yawn, Cullen stretched out, and once again looked to Benat. He was still engaged in conversation. ‘Perhaps I should see where my friend has gone,’ thought Cullen. ‘My master is in no danger and there are some intriguing smells coming from the room where the little woman went.’ He inched along on his belly for a bit then stood and wove his way quietly toward the kitchen. There were any number of patrons who drew away from him when he passed, but they were quickly assured when he ignored them and passed by without a glance in their direction.

The door opened easily with a nudge from his nose. Cullen wedged the door open with his shoulders and stood looking round the kitchen, his tail wagging furiously at the wonderful aromas that assailed his appreciative nose. He slipped in, but all were busy at some tasks and ignored him. He sat down to wait patiently for Ginger to notice him.

There was a slight shuffling in one of the rooms . . . one where the door was slightly ajar. No one else seemed to notice. But to Cullen’s ears it was a furtive sound . . . something or someone was hiding . . . his hackles raised a bit and he padded silently toward the door. He nosed it open. It was a dark place with only the light from the kitchen poking a little ways into it. He could hear the rapid breathing of the hiding creature. Cullen moved his great body into the aisle between the shelves and sniffed along, his nose bringing him closer to the object of his search.

There, plastered against the wall between two shelves was a very small boy clinging for dear life onto a bag. Cullen brought his grey face very close to the child and took a great whiff of him. Fear! The scent was almost overpowering. He licked the lad, trying to reassure him. But the child crumpled down to the floor with a squeal.

Gently as he could, Cullen grabbed the little fellow by his collar and brought him out to the kitchen, like a little puppy carried in his generous maw. Those in the kitchen had turned at the squeal and now gathered near the dog, who dropped his bundle gently at Ginger’s feet.

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger examines the 'gift' from Cullen

Everyone had stopped what they were doing at the child’s squeal. Several of the servers’ eyes went wide at the sight of the rather large dog carrying what appeared to be a disheveled Hobbit boy. Ginger went right up to the dog, who sat as she approached him. Cullen had dropped the little Hobbit at her feet, and sat looking happily at her, his tail swishing back and forth on the kitchen floor.

‘Well, now what’s this?’ Ginger said, crouching down to see better the rag tag bundle the dog had dropped near her. Cullen leaned down and nudged the child with his wet black nose toward Ginger. She stood the child up and turned him round about so that he faced her. He was pale beneath his layer of grime, possibly with fright and was determinedly holding onto his bag.

Buttercup bent down and brushed the tangled curls back from the child’s face. ‘What’s your name, laddie?’ she asked with an encouraging smile

[Tevildo]

For one fleeting moment, Camille thought of replying that her name was 'Ferumbras Took" or something equally ridiculous. But she had a feeling no one would believe her.

Moreover, Camille knew she was in terrible trouble. For the past two years, she had tried to get honest work in the fields but except for harvest time when all hands were needed no one wanted to hire a young lass when they could get older, stronger helpers. She had been reduced to scrounging through trash piles and slipping an occasional apple off of peddlers' carts in order to help feed her brother and Ma. She couldn't say she was proud of that behavior but neither was she ashamed. As long as her mother didn't know and she could coax a tiny smile out of her brother, she would put up with the rest. Yet somehow this dress made things different. She had never taken anything like it before. Camille wished she had never touched the dress, and not only because the big dog had caught her hiding in the pantry. She felt ashamed and sad and a little scared. It wasn't right to steal another girl's frock just because she had none.

Camille vowed to take her punishment bravely. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Someone had told her that prisoners in jail get fed an honest meal. But at the same time, Camille was determined not to let the Inn folk know that her mother and ailing brother were camped out in one of the deserted burrows that fringed the edge of Bywater Pond. Her family had been there nearly six months. They had nailed up boards and fixed the door so the dirty old hole was at least warm and dry when the weather turned cold or rainy. Her Ma came up every night to paw through the peelings and leftovers at the Dragon that got shoved outside into the compost pile. She didn't want them to lose all that.

Relaxing her grip on the bag, she pushed it into the arms of the nearest hobbit lady and explained, "'Scuse me ma'am. I'm a lass, not a laddie, and my name is Camille....Camille Hedgeburrow, to be precise. You'd best get the shiriff here quick. I've done something real awful, something I wish I hadn't done." The lass pointed a dirty finger in the direction of the bulging bag.

[Nurumaiel]

"Well, now!" said Falco, folding his arms and surveying the little thief sternly. He had noticed her steal the dress, and had only refrained from making a scene because he didn't want Marigold to realise so soon that one of her dresses was gone. Now he stood in the kitchen door, gazing at this young Camille, and shaking his head.

"I don't know what else she has in that bag, Miss Ginger, Miss Buttercup," he said, "but I know that for one thing she has one of Marigold's dresses." He strode forward and stood over the girl, and looked very gravely into her face. "I, my young lassie, am the one who bought those dresses."

"You'd best get the shiriff," she said again, dropping her head to avoid his stern gaze.

He looked her up and down, and saw how thin and ragged-looking she was. He had no patience for hobbit thieves, and neither for Big Folk fellow thieves, and he didn't mind scolding a hobbit boy, caught while snatching an apple from the marketplace. But for the hobbit boy thieves, he always showed more kindness, for they were such young little things. And with a hobbit girl thief... his face became more kindly, and his tone less gruff, as he bent down to speak to her.

"Now, I don't think it's necessary to call the shiriff," he said. "You've returned the dress, and whatever else you stole, and I fancy you're a little too young to be taken in by the shiriff. Miss Buttercup, may I have the bag?" She passed it to him, and he opened it, and brought out the dress. It was one of the prettiest dresses, and one that would have looked splendid on Marigold with its rich blue colour. "Well, now, my young lassie," he said, glancing from Camille to the dress, "I don't see why I shouldn't let you have this dress after all. Marigold will be unhappy, no doubt, but she's a kind-hearted girl, and she'll feel a little better about it when she hears about you. But I'll only let you have it, mind, if you come get a bite to eat and tell me what you're doing here."

He glanced towards Buttercup and Ginger, and though they made no open move to stop him, he held up his hands and said: "Ah, now wait, before you try to say I shouldn't. I'm a well-to-do hobbit, and have more than enough money to spare buying a poor hungry wee lass a meal. I've always had a softness for little girls. When I was just a mite myself, only about five or six years of age, my mother told me I must always be gallant and protect and watch after the ladies. So I spent many hours of my days making things easier for the wee lassies of three or four, and taking care of the older girls as I got older. Whenever in a situation like this I always hear my mother telling me to watch out for the little girls." He smiled fondly at the memory. "I hope, misses, that you have no objections to what I propose? I think a good, hearty meal would do her much more good than a gruff old shiriff."

[littlemanpoet]

“Well, that is taken care of! Now, shall we have our payment first, or find some leather and get to work?” Falowik looked inquiringly at Uien.

"Let us go see what Bywater's tanner will part with," she replied, "unless you are afraid of melting in the rain?" She eyed Denegal playfully.

"Not I!" Denegal cried. They rose from their table and made their way out of the Common room. Uien knew more of Denegal than the man wished to tell, though she had no desire to; so it was with the art. Most of all she wished to put the man at his ease, certainly for Falowik's sake, who had few enough friends, but this Gondorian was a kind hearted enough fellow, and his company might lighten the days.

The tanner was a hard bargainer and they parted with a little more coin than they had intended, but the crafty hobbit could see the poor Gondorian's straits, and insisted his ware was of the best quality, and hard to come by in these days of long-lived cattle and horses, thanks to that strange garden seed Mayor Samwise Gamgee had brought back with him from his wild adventures, not that Mayor Gamgee was a bad sort hisself, as far as that went, but strange doings was strange doings, no matter how level your head or flat your hairy feet.

Uien listened to the tough hided tanner with pleasure, Falowik achafing, and Denegal agape at all the tanner's provincial talk. Finally they had their leather and set to work on a pair of boots for Denegal, getting permission from the Inn's ostler for the use of a horse stall for their labor.

[Sett]

Galither woke up again only an hour after he had his meal. The man was now sitting up and staring out of the window. The weather was still bitter and withered. Alas he thought to himself the day is only half way through and however eventful it had been so far he was not intending on dwelling in his room any longer. He pulled himself up and the tall yet lean man stood up straight and stretched his arms. He touched the frail oak ceiling; it was hard but incredibly smooth. As he rubbed his hand along the ceiling it felt so gentle.

He reached the door and with the strength he had gained in his sleep allowed such movement afoot. He gasped the handle and turned it but held back before pulling it back as he was hesitant on going back into the public domain. He plucked up enough courage and the door swung open very swiftly.

As he moved out into the hallway he saw a few hobbits going downstairs and some were going back to their rooms. Much action was taking place in such a small area. He walked down the stairs occasionally having to let maids going up until reaching the bottom where he proceeded into the inn.

He was now in need of a strong ale to give him the vigour needed to take on the rest of the day. He also was now very curious as to the whereabouts of his kinsmen but that was too heavy a burden on his heart that only images of sweet Esmerelda deemed fit to contemplate.

Upon reaching the bar he ordered ale and sat on the bar slumped down, sipping it slowly and with peace.

[Noinkling]

At the squeal from the kitchen, both Benat and Cook looked toward the closed doors, concern on their faces. As a reflex, Benat looked down where Cullen had lain so quietly, or so he thought. The dog was no longer there, nor was he anywhere in sight as Benat scanned the room.

‘Bear and bee! Now where’s he got off to?’ Benat’s eyes were drawn back to the kitchen’s doors and he had a growing dread that somehow Cullen and the squeal were connected. ‘Begging your pardon, m’am,’ he said to Cook but I think I should check on the whereabouts of my dog. I fear he’s gone in there and scared someone.’

He stood, dwarfing Cook as he did so, and turned to make his way to the kitchen.

[piosenniel]

Cook speaks to Camille

Not wanting to be left behind, Cook stood up and followed along behind the giant of a man. His long strides carried him quickly to the kitchen doors, while she bustled along at a dead run. Breathless, she entered behind him, to find a young, dirty, ragamuffin of a child the center of the crowd’s attention.

‘What’s all this?’ she asked, drawing Buttercup aside. She listened carefully, nodding her head, as Buttercup filled her in on the ‘facts’. The urchin was a girl; Camille Hedgeburrow, to be exact. The dog it seemed had come into the kitchen looking for Ginger and ferreted out the lass who was hiding in the pantry. The child had stolen a dress meant for another Hobbit lass, along with a loaf of bread and the remnants of two apples from the apple crisp.

‘A generous offer,’ said Cook hearing Mr. Headstrong’s proposal. ‘I do think a meal is better than a visit from the Shiriff. But if it were me, I would not be giving the lass Mistress Marigold’s dress so easily.’ She stepped up to where Camille stood and put the fingers of her right hand beneath the girl’s chin, drawing it up to look her in the eye. ‘You’re a wee one, but you look able-bodied enough, despite the meals you’ve missed. And you look sorry enough you took the dress and proud enough not to want a hand-out if you were given the chance to earn it for yourself. Isn’t that so? Or I have I read you wrong?’

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger and Cullen and Benat

Catching a grey shadow move at the corner of her eye, Ginger looked away from where Cook was speaking with Camille. Cullen’s tail was drooping down as he moved slowly toward where Benat stood. The man’s stern gaze was bent on the dog, and he growled some low command at Cullen, motioning at the same time for him to ‘come’.

‘Oh, sir,’ said Ginger, walking hastily to the dog’s side. ‘Don’t be angry at poor Cullen!’ The dog gave a few weak thumps of his tail as Ginger stood by his side. ‘He was just bent on seeing me. And I had promised him something tasty from the kitchen. I’m sure he just came to remind me.’ She flung her arms about the dog’s large neck and gave him a hug. ‘He really did help find the child, you know. Camille, there.’ Ginger gestured to where Cook was talking to the girl. ‘And all for the best, too. Cook’ll see right by her. And so will Mister Headstrong, I think.’

She and Cullen had reached where Benat stood in the doorway to the kitchen; Ginger talking all the while as they had drawn near. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t sure what to give Cullen for a treat. That is if it’s alright with you for him to have a treat. Because I remember you said you didn’t eat meat. But how about him? Does he eat meat” Or shall I make him a nice bowl of mush with butter and honey?’

[Huan]

Anyopâ sat quietly at his table. Grey eyes peering over the oft raised mug took in the little scenes in the room about him. A ways away had been an interesting tableau. A woman in a pale blue dress, her hair catching the sun’s pale beams as they happened for a moment through a far window. A man, whose face often traveled to the woman in blue. An Elf. And one of the small folk, a child, at that. Tensions shimmered in the air about the group as bodies tensed and teased and questioned and laughed. To be a fly on the wall, he thought, his eyes glinting at the party.

And now the Elf and child were away and the space between the man and woman crackled it seemed . . .

Gold and silver in twining bands the setting . . . set with a small oval of obsidian, one tiny deep green emerald set slightly off center within the black stone . . . Even now he could see the deep green glimmer casting a small light on the smooth, polished black surface. Anyopâ fetched his small chapbook from the pack at his feet and with quill and ink got from a side pocket, quickly sketched in his design.

Sketch done, he noted a trio of women not far from him . . . two at one table, one adjacent to them. The two had invited the third to join them. Three travelers sharing each other’s company as well as a meal.

Three freshwater pearls! He grinned, seeing the necklace of three different colored pearls spaced on a short chain of fine silver links, gracing the slender neck of some maiden.

And there at the bar, slumped on a stool, sipping a drink to fortify himself for the rest of the day sat a lone man. Tall and lean he was, yet the day sat heavily on him, or so it seemed to Anyopâ, and bore him down.

A thick gold band . . . a ring of promise. One lone diamond set flush in it. Round cut, many facets . . . with a deep brilliance, a fire that pierces the heart.

Anyopâ roughed in the sketches for the necklace and the gold and diamond ring. Accompanying each of the designs was a small bit of text, giving the flavor of the scenes that had prompted them. He smiled, pleased with the drawings and put the leather journal back in his pack. Later, he would work on the drawings in more detail. He leaned back in his chair, pouring himself another drink from the pitcher one of the servers had left. He raised his mug discretely to the room in general, giving thanks to whatever whimsy of fortune had brought him to this most interesting of places.

[Sett]

Galither sat at the bar downing much ale and reminiscing on past events. Such subtleties lay heavy on his thoughts as each gulp washed nothing but the taste of the earth from his mouth. The time outside caused deep emotions to arise once again as the topic of his love was that of sensitivity.

He made grumbles as the ale rose to his head and the bittersweet taste of grand ale caused his anger to diminish and glee to reveal itself. He found himself smiling and enjoying his thoughts. The ale became a catalyst if only for a moment for his inner feelings. It became hope that he may soon find his love. Find her in a place untold for he knew only that she waits for him in a place imaginable only to him and others a loss.

The sound around him was becoming very placid. It was a new time. High noon was upon Galither. His day was very disturbed and he had not expected when dawn was here that such things may happen in such tranquil of places. Then again the silence always hid the most monstrous things. Life here was far from that but the way the day had planned out Galither did question its integrity. Well such things were not to be though of at this time for things were beginning to liven up it just required Galither to reach peace at least for the time being. His only option was more ale and that is what he ordered.

The women at the counter came up to Galither with the large pot of ale in which his inquired and he drunk it like he was starved of such luxuries. Reason for this was that it calmed his soul and this is what he needed at times of such heartache. He continued to grumble to the people around him who shrug him off as a drunken fool. Galither of course was having deeper thoughts and was making sense at least to himself

[Witch_Queen]

Jon rode up to the inn, his brown hair almost drenched from the rain. Taking his horse to the stables, Jon noticed all the cheer he could hear coming from inside the little building. He pulled the hood to his cloak over his head attempting to keep his identity hidden for the time being. He placed his hand on the horses mane before turning to head inside. "I'll be back in a moment. Stay here and don't run off." Jon could feel that the horse wasn't sure if he could trust the look of the inn. Everything seemed so cheerful and yet at the same time it was as if a darkness was hanging over the inn.

Walking to the front door of the inn, Jon could sense an undying happiness on the other side of the door. Scratching his short beard Jon decided to go on inside and see what the place was like. Raising his left hand he proceeded to open the door only after he hesitated for a minute. Opening the door Jon's brown eyes began scanning the room. No one look the least bit familar. He pulled his cloak tighter around his body and the hood over his eyes. The smell of pipe weed filled the air almost causing Jon to begin coughing. He hadn't been around the scent of pipe weed in many years.

[Tevildo]

Camille's eyes darted from Falco back to Cook, her face openly betraying the confusion and surprise she was feeling. Of all the possible outcomes, she had never expected this. For a moment the lass was so overcome that she stood dumbfounded with her jaw dropping open. Finally, she stammered out a few words, "You are both too kind. I can't believe my good fortunte. Cook, I would like to work. I do still have one skirt that I can wear. I will go get it in a bit and then return quickly so you can tell me what I should do."

"It's no excuse about the thieving," Camille added, "but things at home are tough. We lost Da a year ago when his horse bolted and the wagon overturned. My brother was with him. He hasn't been able to walk since then. Mum does her best, but she brings in only a few pennies by doing laundry and mending. She looks tired and old, and there is never enough. If I could earn a bit, it would help. We're staying in one of the old burrows." Camille gestured with her hand towards the open window towards the back of the Inn where you could see the beginnings of the path that meandered down to The Water.

She thoughtfully fingered the dress and turned to her other benefactor, "Master Falco, I don't know what to say. You are a dear. I should never have taken this. I know the difference between right and wrong. But sometimes a body just wants to change things so badly. Anyways, your little Marigold will be sad, and I wouldn't want that. Your offer is sweet but you must take this back to her. My mother wouldn't like that I'd taken something, even with your blessing. And where ever would I wear such a fancy thing? "Tis not for the likes of me." With that, Camille bobbed a curtsey and added, "But I should be most grateful for that lunch before I go. I'm afraid I may eat a hefty plate or two and tuck away the leftovers to take to Mum, if your pocketbook can take it. Perhaps, if I work at the Inn, I can get to know your sweet Marigold someday."

With that, Camille followed Falco over to the table where the two of them sat down.

[Noinkling]

It was difficult to keep a serious expression on his face as Ginger nattered on. Behind his generous beard and thick mustache, Benat’s lips twitched with a barely suppressed smile. Cullen had observed his master’s change of face and his dark eyes glinted with interest as the small lass backed the man into the Common Room.

‘I think the mush would be fine,’ Benat said, managing to get a few words in as Ginger paused for breath. ‘With some apple chunks and walnuts if you have them.’ Cullen whimpered, as if he understood what Benat had said. ‘Above all, no honey. Loves it, he does, but it rots his teeth.’ Benat resumed his seat by the window, motioning Cullen to lie down near him. ‘I, however,’ he said, winking at Ginger, ‘will have a bowl of the same . . . but with honey.’

Ginger hurried off to fill Benat’s order. Cullen looked longingly after her, and whined a small objection to his master.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Sipping his soup quietly, Dwaline peered about the inn. Avalon the crow sat on the table near to him and had just finished a large meal. They had discussed taking a short trip around the Shire and perhaps seeing the grey havens. Seeking stories of Avalon's ancestors.

Dwaline had fallen silent and began looking suspiciously towards a few people. Avalon cocked her head and looked at him. He peered back at her and said,

"Do you see that man over there?" he asked, she nodded, and “He could be an elf All the same, but I don't like the look of some outlandish folk." Avalon smiled a sarcastic smile; "yes, I suppose I am outlandish myself" laughed Dwaline sipping his soup again.

A few other people in the inn caught his eye. He assumed, that despite all the merriment, there was dark business a foot. He took some cram from his pack and offered some to Avalon; she politely refused as she was filled by what she had already eaten. Munching on the cram Dwaline's keen eyes scanned the room. The parlour seemed merry enough, and there were many of different races all about. Elves, men, hobbits, but he could not see any Dwarves.

Dwaline did not really enjoy the company of other Dwarves. He found many to be dull and repetitive. "All I want is Gold" they said to him, he ignored them and found his liking more to the telling of tales and the seeking of adventure. He was now old and could do little but a long hiking trip. No fighting or perilous quests were on his horizons.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling’s own head was aching far more than the Innkeeper’s. The day’s seemingly endless string of disasters had finally reached what could only be its masterpiece. Aman sat nursing her hangover and eyeing him in a way that she had not done since their first acquaintance. He was grateful to Mithalwen for having given him the chance to explain to Aman, but he hardly knew were to begin. The silence grew and became something plump and unnecessary, like an overripe fruit that has lost its flavour and gone to bitterness, but still he did not speak. Usually, it was Aman who would break these uncomfortable silences and find just the words they needed, but this time she sat in her chair, hurt and betrayed. Snaveling knew he could explain the truth to her, and expose the root of Marigold’s error, but he knew as well that it was probably too late to still the wagging tongues of the Shire. If one little Halfling lass had leapt to the conclusion that Snaveling was a romantic figure in the Innkeeper’s heart, then how many others had already done so? How many were doing so now, seeing them together and behaving in the manner that they were? It would be common knowledge that Felarof had been his gift to Aman, as the magnificent stallion had drawn a lot of attention when it had arrived, and none could have failed to note that while Snaveling had come with the horse, it was Aman who now rode him.

Snaveling realized that Aman’s hurt and anger had given her the strength she needed to remain quiet for as long as it would take for him to finally begin. Taking a deep breath, he began by quietly explaining the source of Marigold’s error. He related the events in the stable and his conversation with Mithalwen, dwelling at length on his reasons for telling the Elf the truth about Felarof. “No-one knows better than you, my old friend, what a liar and a deceiver I have been in my life, and I am determined now that I shall speak only truth. I could see that Mithalwen suspected the truth, and I could see no reason for concealing it from her. That Felarof was my gift to you is no shameful deed, but testimony to our friendship. I should have taken more care before the lass, though, for I was already aware that she had been listening to the gossip in these lands about your ‘foreign admirer’, and I should have seen how she would misinterpret Felarof as confirmation that I am this imaginary person.” He saw her wince somewhat at this, but whether it was in response to his words or from the pain in her head he did not know. He dreaded what he had to say next, but said it anyway. “You need not worry, my friend, I will be sure to correct Marigold on the nature of our friendship. I shall tell her that you and I are friends of old, and that I owe you a great debt of gratitude, but that there is not now, nor has there even been, a deeper bond than that between us.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Aman felt as if Snaveling had slapped her across the face, but managed to conceal most of the pain from her face, expression numbed by the dull throbbing in her temples. Licking her lips nervously, she replied quietly, "No deeper bond between us?" Confused, she looked questioningly at Snaveling. When he did not reply, apparently not judging it to be a question, Aman stumbled on awkwardly. "No...no deeper bond. Right, I-I think I understand," she rushed on falteringly, looking away from Snaveling. She smiled uncertainly, staring at her hands as she blinked rapidly, trying to make light. “I…I understand, Snaveling. What a foolish thing for a Marigold- well, for anyone to get into their heads. A foreign admirer for me…no, he could not possibly be real, of course not – what silly ideas little hobbits get into their heads!” She laughed rather too quickly, a fluttering, almost desperate sound like a moth trying to touch the candle. “Silly ideas…” she repeated softly, her tone almost regretful this time as she looked back to her hands, examining closely as if for the first time every millimetre of her cuticles, every line of her palm – these lines, what did they mean? Fate lines, all scattering off into a million pieces, shattering. Breaking.

Snaveling was still watching her, she knew, she could feel those dark eyes on her face. Looking up, she tried to keep her breathing calm and regular as she smiled brightly at him. “I understand, Snaveling. Truly.”

“I do not think, perhaps, that you do…” He replied slowly, frowning slightly. Aman smiled gently but this time did not look up, not trusting herself to meet his eyes. She could feel tears coming and felt them betray her as surely as the man opposite her had done. Angrily, she avoided Snaveling's eye and blinked them away: twice betrayed in an instant!

Rising abruptly and ignoring the wooziness that accompanied the motion, Aman stepped around the table, heading for the kitchen without a word. Snaveling, evidently misinterpreting the act as an attempt to get away from him, caught her wrist as she turned away, holding her back. Aman whirled around, knocking the chair over as she did so, suddenly furious. Wrenching her arm from his grasp in a sudden, vicious motion, the Innkeeper glared angrily at Snaveling, the bright afternoon light from the window spotlighting her gold-tinted hair, sharp, elfin features and green eyes as of some scorned nymph of lore. Snaveling frowned, holding up his hands as if trying to calm an angry horse or dog. He was actually confused! The thought came to Aman with bitter amusement. He honestly didn't appear to know what he had done wrong!

"Aman, wait-"

"No deeper bond?" Aman hissed furiously. "What, no deeper bond when I took you in here? You come here with your fine tales of the King’s court, with riches, with, apparently ‘misleading’ gifts, but think back, if you can bear to stoop so low. When you came to the Inn so many months ago, who took you in? Who trusted you, Snaveling, what one person in this place could you name, besides yourself and your crony, T-" Common sense caused Aman to lower her voice her as she hissed, "Tobias!"

Snaveling glanced around anxiously, painfully aware of the customers who were now staring. Aman felt a stab of self-conciousness, but it was barely noticable, but whether due to the party of last night or the trials of this morning she wasn't sure. Clenching her jaw tightly, Aman forced herself to lower her voice, leaning forward and whispering angrily at the man. “There is not one who would have stood behind you and backed you, Snaveling. Not one. Except me.”

Snaveling looked like he would have said something, then, trying to maintain his composure, he motioned for Aman to sit down. When she remained unmoved, he stood slowly, raising his hands once more in a gesture that tried to be both imploring and soothing. “Aman, I understand why you are angry. But…there are other factors to take into account here and you must understand, I never made any attempt to lead you on –”

“The ranger woman, you mean!” Aman burst out, her voice a furious, whispered explosion. “She was certainly a factor, methinks – the woman who distrusted you and pulled you up in front of the King in the hopes that you would have your come-uppance, you mean! And as for not ‘leading me on’…” she spat. “You made a horse-breeder a gift of the most beautiful horse in Middle Earth, Snaveling. In what way exactly did…did you…” she trailed off, looking away and biting her lip. Closing her eyes for a second, she took a deep breath, then looked sidelong at Snaveling, this time looking simply sad rather than angry as her fury died away to leave only hurt. Without another word, the Innkeeper turned away and headed up the stairs, not waiting to see if he followed her – and she doubted he did, unless he could move even more silently than the elves. As she reached the top of the stairs, she glanced behind her and, checking that the staircase was empty, then broke into a run, her skirts whirling behind her as she made for the attic. Having climbed the ladder up to the cosy room, her expression wild as she continued to blink the tears from her vision, she headed for the window, which was slightly ajar to keep the room from becoming musty for the Inn’s more personal guests. Looking out of the window to the peaceful scene below, she pulled it further open and swung her legs out.

But fear not, for such desperate things as a swift jump were not in the mind of one so down to earth as the Innkeeper. A swift jump for the sake of a misunderstanding? Poppycock and romantic nonsense! Aman smiled slightly despite herself as the words that Cook would use sprang to mind. Standing precariously, Aman reached up for the familiar ledge that her fingers had often found in times of confusion, and, with the help of several handily premeditated footholds, she eased herself up onto the actual roof of the Inn.

Above the world she knew, the breeze was stronger, but its matronly buffeting reminded Aman of who she was, wafting her back to her senses, back to the calm, reasonable person she was – even if she did seem to be looking at that person from afar at the moment. Scrambling a few feet up the gently sloping tiles, the woman came to the chimney pot and, with a ragged sigh, rested her back against it, closing her eyes and tilting her chin up into the wind. The cool slate through the soft material of the dress had the effect on her tears of cold metal against the back of the neck of on with a nose-bleed: within a few seconds, it stopped the flow. Folding her arms across her lap, Aman opened her eyes and looked out on a scene she knew well: rolling fields stretched way into the distance, bordered to the North and South by the almost equidistant forests and, further away to the East, out of sight, was the mysterious mass of trees that made up the Old Forest. Across the idyll of green fields were paths and hedges, roads and fences, criss-crosses on the fields like to the scrawls of children’s’ games across a notepad, the most notable being the path Aman had taken from Rohan, the Greenway, which stretched for untold miles both North and South. Far North to where Zimzaran had come to take poor Derufin by storm! And South…to Rohan, where a young woman came to take the Green Dragon by storm. Aman smiled slightly to herself as she looked into the distance to the South. She could see nothing much really: grassy hills stretching prosperous and peaceful as far as the eye could see. But beyond that…beyond, she knew where home was, her first home: Rohan, the land of the horselords.

But Rohan was no longer her home: the Shire, the Shire called to her, with all its curious customers and ‘curiouser’ people! One day, Aman vowed, one day, I will ride those hobbit-ways and see all these places I have heard talk off – I shall ride all over the Shire before I am done! Maybe even further than that one day, further North where, Piosenniel said, the elves once came from... But first, travel South, West, East or North from the sleepy Inn to discover the rustic boroughs of the Peredhil, flourishing, hidden from the sight of Man. And lucky them!

The thought brought Aman out of her reverie and her brow creased slightly. Giving a long, shaky sigh, she leant back against the chimney pot and looked into the sky. The rainclouds were clearing now, shards of duck-egg blue peering hopefully from behind them, giving promise of a clearer afternoon that the turbulent, stormy morning. Closing her eyes, she dug her shoulderblades into the hard slate fruitlessly and settled there.

“I thought I would find you here.”

Aman almost smiled at Snaveling’s familiar words, the words he had spoken when he had discovered her secret hiding place before. Cook and the hobbits would from floor to ceiling and in every cupboard and cranny in between to find Aman at times, but rarely did any ever think to look up. Her smile soon took on a sad edge though, and faded from her face as if a shadow had fallen over its sun.

“Roa,” she murmured quietly. “It is her that you love. You never loved me.”

There was a pause from Snaveling, and Aman did not have to open her eyes to know his discomfort, both with the statement and with his precarious perch – she had found before that the Black Numenorian was none too comfortable with Aman’s eyrie. “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I love Roa. I…I care for you Aman. But you must be able to understand…”

“I see your point of view, Snaveling,” Aman replied sharply, looking up and fixing him with sky-dazzled eyes. “Asking for understanding is a little much, but yes, I can see your point of view.”

Snaveling did not reply, resorting to his habitual silence. Aman sighed and reached forward, holding out a hand to pull him forwards so that he would not have to cling on quite so tight to the slates so as not to fall off. He looked at her hand for a second, surprised, and Aman nearly withdrew it, biting back the bitter urge to snap that she wouldn’t bite. But after a moments shock, Snaveling accepted her peace offering and she pulled him up to settle on the flat area of the roof on which the chimney’s perched. Settling himself but still looking uncomfortable, Snaveling followed Aman’s gaze into the distance as she drew it to the South. They sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the Inn below them and birds and the rustling of trees around them, soft, gentle noises that filled the breeze and calmed the Innkeeper’s thoughts. Nodding into the distance at some invisible goal, Aman said softly, “It is where we come from, Snaveling, both you and I. Rohan lies that way and so does Gondor – your goal, I think.”

Snaveling nodded silently, his elbows rested casually on his drawn up knees as he looked sidelong at Aman with those dark, enigmatic eyes. “It is where I have to go.”

“I know,” Aman replied simply. Tearing her eyes away, she looked at Snaveling and chanced a somewhat rueful smile, brushing one hand through her wind-strewn hair. “It is where you were always meant to go. I’m just…I’m just glad you decided to stop by on the way.” She grinned and Snaveling, after a seconds hesitation, returned the expression. Aman sighed quietly, glad of the peaceful surroundings – it was here that she felt at peace. Her eyrie. But one thing bothered her still: she understood that Snaveling could only feel the way he did, and that his heart lay elsewhere, in the South with the rangers, but a piece of the puzzle seemed to be missing. Figuring that she could hardly waste time on worrying about causing offence after her scene in the Inn, Aman came straight out with her query, fixing Snaveling once more with her bright green-eyed gaze. “Snaveling, I must ask – you love Roa and had wealth and a place in the court of Elessar. Why, then, did you leave? And why the sudden poverty? You came to the Inn a rich man this time…”

[Witch_Queen]

Jon sat in the corner all by himself. As his eyes scanned the room until he saw a sight he had not seen in a long time. The white crow of his dreams was for once actually real. Taking a closer looked Jon saw that with the crow was a dwarf. "Hmmm." Jon felt as if someone or something was looking at him. The look on the dwarf's face was one of dislike. Jon knew not why the look pleased him but he figured it was the fact that the dwarf must know the crow. Jon's shoulder length brown hair fell out of the hood.

Jon felt an undying darkness inside his heart and new that it only increased while the crow was around. Jon decided it was time to confront his dreams. The only thing was that instead of the crow being with an elf maiden it was with this mountain dweller. This isn't the crow I have seen something seems different. A smile came across Jon's face. Though the man wished to keep his identity a secret he knew it wasn't going to be long before someone figured out who he was. The hood of his cloak would keep the secret until someone removed it. Jon seemed deep inthought when he didn't notice that someone had spilled their mug of ale. Suddenly coming back to reality, Jon decided not to be a loner. Perhaps he should find someone to talk to.

Jon stood up, the bottom of his cloak swept the floor of the inn. The dwarf seemed like an interesting person to talk to. Even though he despised the look of dwarves, Jon felt like something about this dwarf was different. Walking over to the table occupied by the dwarf and crow Jon was trying to think of what to say to him exactly.

"Excuse me... Your crow is by far the rarest I've seen. I'm.... Jon. My last name means nothing to anyone....." Jon knew this was a rough way to start out a conversation.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

At first, Dwaline did not stir. He finished off his soup and then peered up at John. He smirked and sat up.

"She is not my Crow," he said, "She is her own." Avalon seemed to agree and hopped up onto Dwaline's shoulder, then fluttered over to the window and looked out of it. "Now, come to it. What business do you have with Crows?" Dwaline took another piece of Cram and broke it before popping a couple of crumbs into his mouth.

"There are few enough who study Crows or Birds of any sort," he eyes John suspiciously, but before John could say anything, Dwaline raised a hand and carried on, "Please, let me finish. How do I know you mean no harm to me or Avalon." he nodded towards the Crow, "She has had enough hurt in her life. So, out with it, I, or we, have a right to know if you mean us harm. Why do you bear a Sword? Is it to catch Dragons?" He laughed and pushed his chair back.

A Hobbit waitress came by and swiftly took the plates and bowls away from Dwaline's table and hopped along back to the kitchen. Avalon fluttered back to the table and cocked her head at John, and then she seemed to shrug and asked Dwaline how long he would take.

"I do not know," said Dwaline, "It may be some time, you do not have to stay on my account. You are a free Crow, go wither you will." She said something to him that John could not comprehend, and then she hopped out of a window and was gone.

[Witch_Queen]

Jon looked at the dwarf. "Me.. hurt anyone. I don't see how I could hurt a soul. That is unless they hurt me first. As for my sword.." Jon placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. "This old thing is just for protection. Avalon.. that be her name? Well Avalon is a beautiful creature. The idea of flying is remarkable and strikes interest in my mind." Jon knew that he had to lie in order to save himself.

Jon didn't know what else the dwarf wanted to hear. What more lies would he have to tell in order to cover up the fact that he wasn't who he claimed to be.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Dwaline eyed John suspiciously, he stroked his long yet withered beard and then leaned forward. He placed both hands on the table and took a deep breath.

"Now listen here you," he snapped, "I know you're type. I've seen many like you. they try to appear friend and then jump upon you at unawares. What's you’re game?" John did not speak, but held the Dwarf's gaze for a good long wile before turning away. Dwaline glanced over to the window where Avalon had just hopped back in. She fluttered over to the tables and peered suspiciously at John and Dwaline, she detected some tension.

"I may be an old Dwarf, set in my ways, but I always like to be straight with people, and I expect them to be the same. If you have some dark agenda, then be off with you. I can still weald my axe with strength. Now tell us, what do you want with Avalon. I don't want anyone going hurting her again; she's had a hard enough life as it is.

"You don't mean any harm? Such words came even from the mouths of the Nazgúl, how could I trust you." Dwaline was getting carried away with himself and did not realise how scared Avalon was becoming of his sudden wroth. He was never a friend of men, and stayed out of their business, but always new he could often get news from them with cunning words.

Dwaline exhaled heavily and calmed down. He darted his eyes straight at John.

"I am sorry young man," he began, "I got a little wrathful there. It is not like me, but you understand, a traveller needs to have his wits about him. I've come to know many who have had ulterior motive and dark intents. Now, sir, I hope you'll forgive me, but I just don't believe what you are saying. I saw the way you looked at Avalon. Regret, fear, foreboding? One or all of those was in your face. Now tell me, if you will."

[Envinyatar]

‘I’ll just see if Cook can spare us some!’ Derufin hurried out the front door of the groundskeeper’s cottage and across the yard to the Inn’s kitchen entrance. Zimzi was wanting to bleach the muslin curtains the generous ladies of the Shire had made for the windows to her new house. Wood ash she had and water for making lye, but a bit of soured mild would soften the mixture.

‘Hurry! I’ll want to dry them in full sun, and it’s just now peeking out amid the blue patches.’ Zimzi had sent him on with a bright smile. He had paused to look back at her for a moment; her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, one strand of dark hair from the neat bun at the nape of her neck lying limply down the side of her cheek as she stood over the kettle and stirred the concoction. She smiled his way again and motioned him on with a flick of her chin.

‘Hmmm,’ he murmured to himself, seeing the logs along the edge of the property. ‘Now there’s something the lazy groundskeeper should be seeing to,’ he chuckled to himself.’ He laughed aloud. ‘Oh, wait . . . that’s me!’ He was in a fine mood. Marriage sat well on him.

At the hawthorn tree Zimzi had wondered at earlier in the day, he paused, careful not to step on the flowers that crowded near its trunk. ‘Well, good to see you’re still here,’ he threw out as a greeting. The leaves seemed to rustle softly in the breezeless air. Derufin gave the tree a grin and a slight bow, then hurried on.

[Fairleaf]

And welcome to you, Man the mortal! The hawthorn’s leaves murmured in reply.

The rain had stopped; the sun was burning through the clouds. Fairleaf watched the man as he laughed and hurried on toward the back door to the Inn. Moving carefully away from the flowers who now turned there faces toward the light, Fairleaf inched slowly toward the side window of the groundskeeper’s cottage.

There, busy over a steaming pot, was the dark haired woman. There were long rectangles of cloth on the table near her. What sort of strange stew is she making? thought Fairleaf. The hawthorn bent a little closer to the steamy window for a clearer view, a stray branch tip scraping against it ever so lightly as she did so.

[piosenniel]

Notice of Time moving forward in the Shire

It's moving on toward mid-afternoon now. The weather is getting better.

By tomorrow evening, Real Time, the Shire will move toward early evening.

[piosenniel]

~*~ GREEN DRAGON INN FACTS ~*~

The Green Dragon Inn is located in bywater, just off the Great East-West Road.

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.

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

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; Man from southwestern Gondor (played by Envinyatar)

Zimzi (Zimziran), wife to Derufin; a skilled potter from Lindon(played by Pio)

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.

_____________________________________________

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.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

EVERYONE

Please be familiar with The Red Book of Westmarch which gives the rules for posting in the Shire RPG's and in The Green Dragon Inn.

Thanks!

Piosenniel, Shire Moderator