The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Folwren]

For the second time that day in less than ten minutes, Tim found himself once again staring in surprise. He quickly recovered himself, and thankfully before Gerdy had noticed, shut his mouth and turned to the pony.

‘We’ll stable them. If yours is finished drinking we can take them now. There are two stalls right next to each other that they can take.’ The ponies lifted their heads almost together and Tim led his off. Gerdy followed close behind. ‘Here, put yours in there,’ Tim said over his shoulder as he passed the first empty stall. The next one he opened and led the second pony into it. There he took the rest of the harnessing off of the animal and rubbed him down. He went to the neighboring stall once he was finished to check on the other pony and found Gerdy still working on him. He smiled as he turned to get corn and hay for both of them.

He took the lid off of the grain bin and reached down to fill his buckets. His hand was arrested in mid air as he caught sight of a slight, quick movement on the edge. A smile broke out on his face as he went on to fill his bucket. So, there are mice in barn, are there? He had to get enough grain for both ponies. A mouse might come in handy. He chuckled this time and closed the lid.

“Here is some corn for the pony,” he said, swinging open the door to the stall. Gerdy looked up and nodded as Tim set it down. “I’ll be back with some hay in a moment.” He withdrew again to feed the pony he’d taken charge of and get the promised hay.

[piosenniel]

scrape . . . scrape . . . scrape . . .

The oven door was full open and Cook was kneeling on the floor, her head poked into the oven itself. The pies she’d made a day ago had bubbled over and their drippings now stood like a carbonized range of smoking black peaks on the oven’s floor. Which would not have ordinarily been a problem, save for the fact that they had taken to reeking of smoke when she’d begun heating up the oven for the day’s baking. The breads that morning had had a slightly smoked taste, which she’d passed off as a new recipe she was trying. But now she wanted to bake up her faery-cake recipe and the charred scent simply wouldn’t do.

The sound of some voice at a distance intruded upon her cleaning frenzy, and she pulled her head a little ways from the oven just in time to hear the word, ‘dearie’. Cook stood up, wiping her hands on the old towel she’d tucked into the waist of her apron and turned about.

‘Violet Greengage! Come in, come in! What brings you from your burrow to the Dragon?’ She motioned for Violet to take a seat at the kitchen table. ‘Here, just let me was up a bit and we’ll have a nice cup of tea and a chat.’

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

Frór listent with outmost care to every word that Ibun said. When He had been so distracted that he forgot to put pipe-weed in his pipe and was siting with an empty pipe in his mouth. It was first when Ibun had stopped talking that Frór noticed this "unbelivabel" mistake!

Where is this Tower Hills of what you speak? I have never heard of this place. Fór asked,while preparing his pipe. Mithlond you say! Frór continued. If my memory is correct it is the place allso known as Grey Havens. I my self are heading in that direction, I have been told that the lord of this place should be most wise! Althoug an elf!

Frór now looked around the room, where after he leaned towards Ibun and spok in a low voice. I know of dwellings in the Blue Mountains, but it is said that ill things has happend there and thoug i know that these are north of the Gulf of Lhûn. I will not seek them until I have spoken to the lord of the Grey Havens. This would proberbly make the jurney easier too, since i do not know the road to these dwelings. He leand back in his chair, smoking his pipe.

Frór felt a warm feeling flow throug him, the food, drink and smoke had done it's job. He now startet to think of less ergent things. He noticed that his colthes was torn to threads, something he had completly ignored while eating!

Again he looked at Ibun and spoke: Master Ibun I think it would be a great advatage for boyh of us to jurney together, but I cannot leave before I have got some new clothes and restet! If you can wait, we shall jurney together. Now lets drink!

[Arry]

Gil and Rowan are joined by the rest of the crew

‘There you are!’ cried Tomlin, approaching the table where Gil and Rowan sat. ‘I thought your Da said we were to meet him at the Widow Thistlefoot’s burrow. Something about a shed to be put up . . . for gardening?’ Without invitation, he sat down at the table as he waited for Gil to answer. Hungry, or perhaps just wanting to have something to do with his hands, he began picking at gil’s plate. A strip of bacon here, a piece of toast there.

Fallon and Ferrin soon came tumbling in the door; rolling up to the table with laughs at some odd joke one or the other had thought up. ‘Ooh! Second breakfast, is it? Lovely!’ cried Ferrin crowding in next to Tomlin with a chair he’d borrowed from another table. Fallon sat on the other side of Tomlin and waved over Ruby. ‘Gil’s famished!’ he shouted as she drew near. ‘He’ll need another plate of eggs and ham and bacon and maybe one of mushrooms. Oh! And a bigger basket of bread and more cheese.’ He winked at Rowan. ‘This lass here is hungry, too. Make that two of everything.’

‘And more jam,’ said Tomlin spying Buttercup who’d come over to see what all the commotion was about. He waved the empty jam pot at her, grinning widely.

‘Sweets for the sweet,’ she laughed, grabbing it from his hand before it slipped and dropped to the floor. Hands on her hips she surveyed the rowdy fellows. ‘And who will be footing the bill for this grand breakfast?’ she asked, her gaze sweeping from one to the other and back again . . .

[Koobdooga]

‘Well, it would be good to have your company on the road, my friend!’ Ibun poured another mug of ale for himself and for Frór. The sunlight, he noticed, as he glanced toward the window was bright and inviting. ‘What do you say we take our ale and pipes out to the front porch, Frór? I noticed some chairs on the far end. We can sit back, put our feet up, and enjoy the sunshine.’

The two Dwarves had soon removed themselves to the Inn’s fron porch. The weather was mild, breezeless, and the sun’s light gave a feeling of warmth and contentment.

Ibun admitted he had never actually been to the Tower Hills before. But he understood the stood at the far western edge of the Shire. The Elves, he told Frór, had built three towers there long ago. And in the tallest, it was said, they had placed one of their long seeing stones that was said to be able to see all the way West to that place where the Elves go. ‘Of course, it’s no longer there. It went West on one of the Elven ships, or so I’ve heard.’

He took a few puffs at his pipe. ‘And just beyond those hills is the gulf where the Elves go to board their ships. That’s where I thought I would ask for news about Dwarves dwelling in the Blue Mountains. I’m sure they would have come down to the city about the docks there and sold some of their goods.’ He took a sip of his ale and sighed. ‘I’m sure they must have done so.’

[Dunwen]

“Ooof ” Ebba Rosebank had turned away from her locked door only barreled into by a hobbit lass carrying a large armful of towels. “Good gracious, be careful,” she exclaimed sharply, for even a hobbit laden with soft towels is painfully solid. Startled by the woman’s words, Ginger blushed pink and tried to apologize and pick up the scattered towels at the same time.

Ebba, having recovered from her own startlement, calmed down. The hobbit who had run into her was plainly distressed, and looked quite young. The widow was suddenly reminded of her younger daughter. “There, I don’t suppose either of us are hurt,” she said in a milder tone of voice. “Let’s get these towels picked up.” Ginger caught her breath, relived that the woman now spoke in an almost kindly manner. She curtsied and asked the guest if she would like some clean towels and facecloths, and flowers.

“I just finished washing up and could use one of each,” replied Ebba, as she picked up and folded some towels. “And some flowers would be pretty.” Ginger stopped her own picking up and folding to unlock the door of Widow Rosebank’s room and told Wren to put towels and some of the flowers in there. Shyly, Wren slipped inside to do as she was bid.

For her part, Ebba was surprised to see a small human girl in what was obviously a hobbit’s dress helping out at the Green Dragon. She looked at her closely as she disappeared into her room. In Bree, it wouldn’t have been unusual (except for the dress, of course) for Big Folk to work for hobbits and vice versa, but she had always thought the hobbits of the Shire tended to avoid humans. Of course, the common room downstairs had been filled with any number of different folk – elves, hobbits, at least one dwarf and herself. It had reminded her pleasantly of the Prancing Pony, and with less ruckus.

“It looks like you get all sorts of people coming through here,” she said cheerfully to Ginger as she helped the young hobbit load her arms once again. “The little girl helping you – does her family live in the Shire?” The widow had the oddest feeling she should know the child from somewhere, but couldn’t think why.

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger answers Miz Rosebank

Ginger peeked into the room, watching Wren as she put fresh flowers in the lady’s vase. The girl seemed intent on what she was doing, her deft fingers arranging the colors in a pleasing pattern. Stepping away from the door a bit, Ginger spoke low to the question the lady had asked.

‘Her name is Wren, m’am,’ Ginger began. ‘Wren Woodlock. She works here at the Inn with me. I’m Ginger, by the way,’ she added quickly. ‘Her brother, Tim, helps out in the stable.’ She craned her neck to see where Wren was now. Pitching her voice even lower she leaned near the lady, whispering. ‘And no, her family doesn’t live in the Shire. They used to live in Bree.’ Ginger blanched, not quite sure how to continue. ‘Her Ma and Da . . . well, they’ve passed on,’ she stammered.

Wren, by this time, had finished her flowers, and stepped out into the hall. Ginger blushed and motioned her over. ‘Here’s Wren, m’am,’ she said by way of introduction. ‘And Wren this is Miz . . .’ Ginger’s brow furrowed, recalling she hadn’t actually heard the lady’s name. ‘Excuse me, m’am . . . I’d like to introduce you, but I guess I forgot to ask your name.’