The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Nogrod]

Rían brought two pints from the desk, and came back to the table where Grimhorn had set himself down. He sent the other pint gliding over the table, and Grimhorn catched it comfortably. Grimhhorn grinned again, that very weird smile he had. Then he nodded, as like an approval of sorts. Reddie relaxed a bit and leaned to his chair’s back, testing different lines at the back of his mouth, about how to start a conversation.

But obviously there was not going to be any conversation for a while, for the beer really seemed to have come to a need for this giant. He wasn’t sure, whether this tower of a man regarded him anything more than the smoky air around them. Thinking about which reminded him of his pipe. He started to fill his pipe with The Old Boff’s, he always tried to have with him. Making this familiar routine kind of settled him a bit, his hands didn’t even shake any more. Rían pressed the pipe for a couple of times to make sure the bed was well laid and then lit it carefully. He took a couple of puffs, and then inhaled the smoke, making a couple of small rings from the outpouring smoke. Grimhorn seemed to delve in his own thoughts, so Rían also closed his eyes and kind of went into himself.

What a lovely sight! Two beornings, both sitting against each other at a table, in an inn full of noise and partying people. Just sitting there, both in their own worlds. They had kind of created a bubble of their own around that table. But compared to the similar bubble that lovers do manage to create almost anywhere, this bubble was not so much theirs’, as they both were in it separately.

There was something unsettling in that grin, Rían thought to himself. Just one of those grins, combined with the stature of this guy, could have scared the Morgoth out of anyone. But being a beorning himself, or at least a half-beorning raised in a beorning community, Reddie should have managed to be quite familiar with it. But still there was something hounting in it, as though it would have been familiarity of a more concrete sort, in a more particular way. And he had never even met this man! No, it couldn’t be anything like that.

Suddenly Rían had a thought that made cold chills go all around his body. His hands started to shake again, not in any clearly noticeable fashion, but he did sense it himself. Grimhorn as well seemed to have come back from his well earned rest with the beer, and had started looking at Reddie somewhat intensely. Then Rían just felt, that he would have to ask this, no matter, what the consequences would be.

“So, did you really say, you are the son of Grimgor? The son of “Grimgor Bearhand”, Grimgor “the Owl’s eye”, “the one that runs at dusk”?”. The band had started playing again, and Rían would have given all that he had, for a negative answer.

[Dunwen]

Widow Rosebank woke up suddenly, disoriented. Sounds of chatter, laughter and music drifted into her darkened room upstairs in the Green Dragon through the window she’d left slightly ajar. She must have dozed off and slept well past the start of the party tonight! Groggily, she sat up on the bed and lit the candle on the table by her bed. After a few more moments of collecting her thoughts, she stood up and stretched. Then, going to the window, she peeked out and got a partial view of the crowd below, dancing and talking. Despite her alarm at the reports of a live Orc in the vicinity of the Dragon, the Widow’s foot starting tapping along to the merry tune being played below. What finally decided her was the faint odor of the feast laid out for the inn’s guests. She guessed if she wanted to eat dinner tonight, she’d better gather her courage and join the party.

Closing and firmly latching the window (what had she been thinking to leave it open?!), Widow Rosebank pulled the curtains closed and washed up. She had thought to bring one party dress with her, impractical as it had seemed at the time, and she pulled it on happily. One of the best things about owning a dry goods business was first call on the prettiest cloth and notions that came in, and she was well-pleased with her appearance when she finished. Her long-sleeved dress was a plain shade of gray, but of such a soft, rich velvet that she felt almost like a grand lady wearing it. She had embellished it herself at the cuffs with a thick pattern of glass beads made to glitter like silver. They wound about her wrists and up to her elbows in a pattern of vines and flowers. She had sewn a matching beaded pattern around the V-shaped neckline of her dress and around the hem of the full skirt. She decided, after some thought, to leave her hair down. It wouldn’t have been quite proper for a respectable shopkeeper in Bree, but she wasn’t known in Bywater. Besides, the gray velvet somehow brought out copper lights in her brown hair.

Examining her appearance in the small mirror over the washstand, the Widow nodded firmly. “Not bad for a woman your age,” she said to her reflection. Then, checking the latch on the window and locking her door behind her, (she hadn’t forgotten that Orc), she went downstairs.

The common room was nearly deserted as she went through. She stepped out the door into a flood of light and sound. Before her a crowd of Hobbits, Men and Elves whirled in a dance to the tune played by a trio of musicians on the verandah off to one side. Across the green lawn, tables were still laden with plenty of food and several casks dispensing frothy ales. The night was cooling enough to make her thankful for her long-sleeved dress, but not so much as to make her want her cloak.

Heeding her rumbling stomach, the Widow skirted the dancing couples and made her way to the tables. Filling a plate and getting a tankard of what looked to be a fine brown ale, she found a seat at one of the tables and sat down to enjoy her dinner. She’d looked around for one of her new acquaintances, but didn’t see anyone she knew. However, if she sat long enough, someone would likely come up and talk to her. Hopefully she’d have time to eat a bit first. She started on her roast chicken, all the while tapping her foot in time to the music. Pity there wasn’t a fellow her own age to dance with, she thought. Still, it was fun to watch the crowd, especially the young folks. There was a fair amount of flirtation going on between several couples. The widow smiled to herself as she watched a hobbit lad join a pretty young woman near the ale casks. They reminded her of her own courtship so many years ago.

[Dimturiel]

Aniriel was siting at her table in front of a mug of ale. She felt better. Actually, better was not quite the word for it. There was a strange sense of euphoria inside her and she felt the need to do reckless things. Yet it was not so much because of the ale as because of the cheerfulness that surrounded her. She was so overwhelmed by it, that she had to restrain herself from shouting and dancing. Instead she got up, holding the mug in her hand, and said aloud:

"Kind lords and ladies! I have heard many travellers speak of this fair land. And they praised ever this inn and the courteous people that dwell here. And I must confess that I thought they were exagerating, as travellers much too often do to gain attention. But now, when I see with my own eyes the marvels of this place, I realise that none of those I have heard did you any justice!"

She sat down, amazed of her own daring.

"Now they will think that you are either drunk, either mad," a voice inside her head said. "And serves you right, Aniriel, for making such a fool of yourself."

Feeling her cheeks burning, Aniriel took another gulp, not daring yet to look at anybody.

[Folwren]

Tim could hardy believe the position that he found himself in now. Before he could say anything, Wren and Woody had scurried out from beneath the table cloth, and he was left alone, kneeling on the dry, springy grass beneath the cakes and other desserts. He looked around him, bent his head to look below the cloth, and then straightened again and set his eyes on Hanson.

“Come on, then,” he said, nodding towards the hanging cloth. “We’d better find the properest cake to grab while no one’s around.” Hanson nodded, his face still widened by a huge smile full of fun. He and Tim scrambled out quickly, though carefully, from beneath the table, and stood up. “Come on. . .come on,” he said. “We don’t want to be seen hanging around here before we actually have to steel it. Let’s check it from a little ways away.”

Without turning his head, he walked several paces off and put a few people between him and the table of desserts. Hanson followed at his side. They turned together and stood still, eyeing the possible booty and considering carefully which would be the best.

There were about five cakes, all not very large, five pies, and several plates of an assortment of cookies. Tim figured there was likely more food in the kitchen to back these up, in case the cakes and pies were eaten before the night was quite out.

After looking over all of them, Tim spotted a likely cake, one with creamy yellow icing surrounding the white, flaky cake. One or two pieces had been cut out of it, but nothing that they would miss too much. He suggested it to Hanson, and the hobbit child nodded, his eyes sparkling as they settled on the cake and his tongue slowly licked his lower lips.

“Well, we’d better go back,” Tim said. “Keep a sharp eye out that we’re not seen. There’s Woody and Wren now. . .their mission happily accomplished.”

[Thinlómien]

Grimhorn sat comfortably in his chair, drinking his beer. His thoughts had wandered to distant places and people. He had nearly forgotten about Rían sitting opposite him until the lad spoke: “So, did you really say, you are the son of Grimgor? The son of “Grimgor Bearhand”, Grimgor “the Owl’s eye”, “the one that runs at dusk”?”

Grimhorn's eyes narrowed slightly, but before he could answer he was distracted by the band that had just started playing. Rían was not looking at him; he watched the band. Then the young man turned and faced Grimhorn's narrowed gaze. For the older man's satisfaction, Rían looked a bit frightened. Still, the lad seemed to be waiting for the answer.

"Do you question my word?" Grimhorn asked the other beorning with a low voice. Rían looked puzzled. Grimhorn cleared his throat. Maybe this was about a different thing. "How many Grimgors you know? How many Grimgors there are?" he asked. After a small pause, he added: "I doubt you have heard of more than one. It's not so usual name."

By himself, he wondered how much did the lad know.

[Enedhilion]

The door swung open. A dark figure made his way into the Inn. As he felt the beaming eyes of curious spectators, he silently sat down at a table, in a dark corner.

Beriothien was his name. He believes he is the age of thirty four, he does not remember. Not important... The figure was tall, built, with a mysterious presence... almost an aura, if you will. He carried a long blade, he believes it dates only back to the Third Age, forged by men in West Emnet, outside of the glorious city of Edoras.

A stranger strides up to his table, "What will't be, man of the shadow?"
"Surprise me," Beriothien says. "I've never seen you in these parts. What is your business here, figure?" the waiter replies. "Just passin' through, no worries."

As the man leaves, Beriothien's mind wanders again. He is hit with an old memory, a terrible one. He thinks to himself...
I cannot believe I am still here. It was a slaughter, their attacks never ceased...never ceased...

Beriothien, a troubled man, has fought with many men, and watched his friends die at his feet. War is a terrible thing, but it cannot be avoided.

He comes back to reality. Must rest...must drink...big day coming up...better be ready...

We shall see what's in store for the man of the shadow.

[Caunwaithon]

It is nightime outside, and a single rider trots along a steady path, trees backing him on all sides. The man is a Rohirrim, but he is not lost in these parts, he has not wandered to the Shire by accident. The young man wears a leather and steel armor, with chain mail underneath. On his head sits a black horsehair crest, the symbol of an Outrider of Rohan. In his right hand, held up high, is a six foot ashen spear, black with a shining wrought iron steel tip.

The single rider comes to the Green Dragon inn. He dismounts amidts crowds of people and several exchange glances at the newcomer. There must be a party outside, for that matter. He does not bother to tie up his starkly black horse, but instead, he pats it on the neck, whispering ridddemarken into it's ear.

"Secht le beltom, no flenta."

The young man smiles, and the horse lies down, nieghing and brushing up against the leg of his master.



The door of the tavern booms loudly open, hitting the wall and rebounding. A large man , made even larger by the leather and steel armor he is wearing, fills the room with a hearty laughter, and sets an ashen spear down on the opposite side of the door. I am this man, and this is my story. There is no need to carry a weapon in here, I have nothing to fear from this place. I am from good times, of hearty drinks and glorious battle. I remove my steel helm, coarse horsehair crest scratching the back of my neck, and revealing my long, straight dirty blond hair that has been tucked into my helm. Making my way through the inn, I greet all those who come across my path, leaving a wake of smiles and laughter. But there seems to be few people here, they must all be outside. No matter. I will get an ale, and see what happens. I hit my knee against something, and that something yelps, in a deep, guttural voice. I have nearly tripped over an old acquaintince, a dwarve of the Fundin clan. He seems to be in a foul mood....I decide to cheer up the firey red-haired dwarve.

"Ah, my old friend Harod! What troubles you in these glad times? The lord of shadow is no more!"

The dwarve looks at the floor, then look back up into my eyes.

"Aye, horse lord, the evil sauron may be gone, but his minions still live on. Evil still infests all lands, and we dwarves have still not reclaimed Moria...."

I clap him on the shoulder, smiling, showing rows of white teeth.

"My friend, if there was no evil, we would have no pay! And without pay, how would we pay for our ale?"

The dwarve's gaze darts up, and booming laughter comes forth from his beard.

"Aye laddy, that you are correct!"

I turn from my friend, looking at the bar. I see no Bartender, so I just loudly proclaim,

"Barkeep, an ale for I and one for my dwarven companion! He is thirsty and travel weary!"

A beautiful woman comes up from above the bar surface, hands on her hips. A lock of golden hair is amiss from the rest going across her forehead and over one eye. The rest is brought back in a ponytail. Her skin is only very lightly tanned, with a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her cheeks. But her eyes....large emeralds, sparkling in radiance and contrasting with her earth-toned dress. This is a maiden of Rohan, the land of my birth. What is she doing all the way in the shire? I have an excuse, I am an outrider of Rohan, but....

The woman brings me back from my daydream.

"Excuse me? Sir...."

I smile nervously, reminding my self all too wearily of my young age. I am barely 19 years of age, this woman cannot be interested in such a young one. But she seems to be the same age...

"I was simply struck by your beauty, my lady..."

She laughs, and rolls her eyes.

"You are the fourth one to say that today, and I know I don't look "beautiful" right now. I've been working for nearly a fortnight. So don't think you can trick me, even if you are an Outrider."

She must have some knowledge of us...she could tell by my black horsehair crest. This is indeed a woman of rohan. I smile at the woman, and she turns to get the ale.

"A'right, Horsemaster. Two 'ales comin' up."

I turn back to my dwarven friend still smiling, and remove my hand from his shoulder, turning to grasp the two ales being handed to me. In the corner of me eye, in the darkest shadow of the room, I see a Ranger, who seems to suck the very light out from around him....

Who is this shadow man?

My eyes fixed upon the ranger, I grasp the two stiens and ask the barkeep of the man, while stroking the short dirty blond beard that begins at my ears, and ends at the bottom of my chin, going over my lip.

"My lady, who is that man?"

The woman's congenial look vanishes from her face, the diamond spark goes out of her eyes, and she speaks in a hushed tone.

"That'll be one of them rangers....dangerous folk if you ask me. That one just walked in without sayin'a word, and sat right down."

I hand Harod's stien to him, which he immediatley starts gulping, and speak again, eyes still fixed on the man.

"One more ale for a friend I have not met yet."

The woman smiles, and winks at me. Maybe it was just sarcasm in her voice before....

I turn back and look at the ranger, and other thoughts vanish from my mind. That man is either a godsend, or pure evil.

"Here you go, young Outrider."

She tops off a mug and places it in my hand, caressingly, I note.

I need to stop thinking of her. I have a job to do. This man might have information.

I begin to walk toward the Ranger's table. His eyes are fixed on.....

Nothing.

I have only seen that look in the eyes of men who have seen the horrors of battle, and seen their comrades go down. I come upon the man, and nudge him with a stien, grinning.

"Hello there, freind. Got room for one more?"

[Enedhilion]

My train of thought is rudely interrupted by an obnoxious and loud fool.
"Hello there, dark one. How about a pint o' ale?"

"What is your purpose of pestering me with your nettlesome speech?" I ask abruptly.

"Sorry, I meant no harm. I just saw a lonely fellow, sittin 'ere by himself, and wanted to bring a pint o' ale for your troubles, an' a ear to hear any information you have. You are, after all, a ranger, and I am an outrider. I am Canwaithon, of the Riddimarck."

...He knows nothing of me, only the clothes on my back and the darkness beyond my cloak. Who is he to barge in on my time to myself and bother me with his disdainful statement?

"I have no information, wander'r. And I do not find myself obliging to your request."

[Caunwaithon]

I will have information out of this man, however foul-tempered he is. I will not use force to extract it, though. I can see now that this man is older than I, and by quite a few years, at that. He looks nearly thirty, and then some. But more than that....

He is troubled. He knows of a great battle that happened, and it is more than likely that he fled, or was the only one left alive.

I set down the stien in front of myself, and slide it over to the man.

"C'mon! Have an ale for your troubles, and tell me a spell. There isn't a thing as a ranger who doesn't know what's happening."

I smile again, relaxing back in the booth. I slump down in it, and set my helm off to the side,taking a draught of the cool beer. It' been quite a while since I drank anything but water, or ate anything but jerky. I can hear the sounds of hobbits laughing outside, intermixed with your every-now and then human, and the sound of flutes, and other music.

It is good to relax every once and awhile....