The Golden Perch Inn

[Gwathagor]

His cloak was long, and though it was now tattered and stained, it had probably been of a deep royal blue. Blood soaked the hem of his garment and had dried down the side of his right boot. He stood very still, with his sword unsheathed. The only movement in the stillness was the warm wind, which gently blew his long dark hair about his face. He was tense and alert, but as the wind began to blow, he let down his guard. He took a deep breath of the clean Shire air, sighed, and began to sheath his sword.

I am very tired.

The sword was long and scarred, attesting to the ferocity of its bearer and to the many battles it had seen. It was an old weapon, outdated by many standards, but clean and well-cared for despite its nicks and battle-wounds. Though simple, the symmetry of the craftsmanship, the quality of the metal, and the natural curve and balance of the blade spoke of many long hours in the forge. It was kingly, but in no way pretentious or ceremonial, clearly designed for one purpose alone: to kill, swiftly and well. The sword was unadorned save for a thick strand of pure silver that traced its way through the working of the hilt, and about the leather-bound handle of the ancient longsword. The elf carefully and lovingly returned it to its simple leather scabbard, which bore upon it a device of a single white rose, set amidst a field of fiery stars.

Then he knew that he was watched. The slightest breath, the brief minor note in a birdsong, a change in the wind; nothing escaped his trained, wild-wary senses. His instincts told him that there was something behind him in the trees. He turned, swiftly and calmly to face his watcher. The royal sword leapt from its scabbard. At the same moment the moon rolled from behind a cloud, casting silver-blue beams upon the green sward. The sword caught the light of the full moon as a large wolf emerged from the pine grove. Its fangs and its glittering eyes also reflected the moonlight and its black mane rippled in the wind.

"Begone, creature of the cold north! This is not your realm, you may not trouble these little people." There was menace in the elf's voice, menace which the wolf returned with an almost imperceptibly deep growl.

Suddenly, in a single natural, quick motion, the wolf sprang forward, as a mighty howl tore from its throat. The elf's blade flashed up and forward in a similar a movement; an arc: calm, natural, and sure. Cold hate was in his eyes. Time seemed to slow, nearly to a standstill, as the clash of the two wild creatures loomed, and as the quiet moonlit village slept. The two killers from the wild stood locked in a deep and terrible combat upon the brink of humanity and civilization, where neither was accustomed to tred.

Then the clouds drifted back across the moon and the elf's longsword finished its arc, its blade coming to rest buried deep in the grass and soil of the hilltop. The wolf-creature had vanished, and the elf was alone, head down, bent double, both hands upon the grip of his sword. The monster's cry reverberated over all, then abruptly drifted away on the gentle summer wind.

The elf collapsed unconscious upon the green turf beside his sword. He was very tired.

[Dunwen]

In the Golden Perch’s common room, Peri’s order had arrived. After taking a moment to inhale the assorted scents from the meal in front of her, Peri added some sugar to the warm tea. Lifting it to her lips, she sipped blissfully and savored the feel of the liquid heat flowing down her throat. After a few more mouthfuls, she turned her attention to her food.

She had seldom enjoyed a meal more. After a long day traveling from the Tookland, everything tasted delicious. First, she steadily devoured a small plate of fresh-baked biscuits slathered with butter and strawberry jam. She inhaled the accompanying portion of stew. Turning at last to the piquantly spiced slice of apple pie, she happily ate every crumb from tip to flaky crust.

Full for the first time all day, she pushed back from the table, and as Dick had instructed her, found him and paid her dinner and a room for the next few days. An unexpected wave of tiredness overcame her. The idea of curling up in a soft bed sounded extremely attractive, so she picked up her saddlebags and made her way out of the common room. Clutching the key she’d been given, she found her room and unlocked the door.

And found that pesky younger sister of Lily’s inside. Annoyed, Peri snapped, “And just what do you think you’re doing here, miss?” She fixed the younger hobbit with a glare that would have stopped an Orc in its tracks.

[Gwathagor]

The door to the Golden Perch swung open with a bang. A tall, dark elf staggered through the door, stooping low to avoid the low lintel.

"Ale! Quick!", he said, as he stumbled into a chair which was a bit too small for him.

He had regained consciousness only moments before, as the first rays of dawn had crept over the mountains. His battle with the wolf-fiend the night before had left him weak. Indeed, he could not even pull his sword from where he had found it, embedded hilt deep in the ground beside him. Exhausted, he had just enough strength to make his way as quickly as he could down the hill to the inn.

There was something very dark working in the East Farthing.

The warrior elf had followed the trail of the wolves from far in the northern wastelands, traveling with all speed he could muster. And all along the way, he had been hindered by nearly every monster native to those lands, and some that were not. He was returning from a fruitless journey to find the nomadic Lossoth people, whence had come rumors of extraordinary numbers of marauding wolves, when he had come upon the south-bound wolf-trail. These were not ordinary wolves. These were draugring, relatives of the fierce wargs. They dwelt in the north, seldom passing the southern borders of ancient Angmar, and of old their king had been Tugaurath, a maia spirit.

While tracking the wolves, he had guessed that the forces of darkness were being gathered by some evil spirit because of the resistance to his approach. Now his worst fears were confirmed. Surely Tugaurath, the last of the great werewolves had come forth once more at the behest of the Power of the East. All across Middle-earth, monsters and dark creatures were crawling forth from their exiles in deep caverns or distant lands, perceiving that Sauron's power waxed strong.

He leaned heavily upon the thick table-top as a hobbit brought him a beaker of ale. He drained it in a single, long gulp, set it down hard upon the table. Immediately, he felt his strength and clarity of mind returning. The tall elf with the bloodstained cloak looked upon the obliging hobbit who had supplied the ale.

"Blessed hobbit, I am in your debt", he sighed and paused a moment before continuing. "In all Middle-earth, there is nothing quite like the ale brewed by the Shire-folk. Would that I had come on any other errand than that which now drives me; perhaps when this terrible day is done, I will sit and enjoy your ale at my leisure and to my heart's content. But now there is need of haste: your land is in grave danger. Tell me, as quickly as you can, all that you know about the wolves..."

[Forest Elf]

Gable was amazed that she hadn't fallen out of the tree at all that night. And the hobbit seemed to be in a possition that would make it hard to fall out of the tree, considering the way the branches were about him. She looked down, the wolves were still there. She sighed and wondered why no one had come yesternight. She sighed and closed her eyes, the sun had just barely come up. The wolves had to rest sooner or later, or even give up. She was surprised that they were still there and that they were still awake. How can they not rest? Perhaps they were sleeping while I was too.. come to think of it, I don't even remember falling asleep.

Gable carefully stood up on her branch, using the branches above her to keep her balance. The wolves stood also, their tails wagging behind them. They looked up at her with large eyes and they seemed to be smiling. One of the growled deeply in it's throat, just waiting for Gable to slip and land upon the ground. But Gable knew better than to let that happen, despite what the wolves did.

She sat back down after a few minutes and waited until the sun was higher up in the sky, a time when the Inn would surely have some folk awake. She threw back her head and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath of cool morning air and shouted, "Help!" in a single, long, cry. After that the wolves tried leaping up at her, to no use. Then they backed up and ran and then leapt up into the air. They flew higher and were only inches away from the branch, almost catching her feet in their jaws. She screamed and started shouting, "Help!" loud enough to be heard, but also fast enough to get the message along.

She grabbed a branch; still shouting; and began to swing it down at the wolves. She hit a couple of the beasts, but it did nothing to stop then, it only slowed them down a little. She just hoped the hobbit didn't make any sudden movements out of his place in his tree. If he moved down just a few inches, the wolves would get him for sure. She sent up a silent prayer for help while her shouts rang out across the land to the Inn.

[Folwren]

Now this was a strange customer, indeed. He talked like a book, he did, and he looked like one, too, almost. Dick cast his eyes over the dishelved character, caked and stained as he was with mud and who knows what else. All the same, he was an elf, and no elf can look very bad even in the worst circumstances and he had the clear, keen eyes of his race, the strong, clean face and a fair voice.

“Now why would the Shire be in any great danger, sir?” Dick asked. He eyed the elf with doubt. But then he sighed and sat down opposite him. “Since there aren’t many customers yet and since it’s so early, I may as well tell you. . .”

And Dick began, in hobbit fashion, going on whatever rabbit trails presented themselves, to tell the elf warrior what had passed the previous two days. How the wolves were found in his own stable and driven out again by the hobbits there and some of the guests of the inn. And again yesterday, how some were discovered. And although it was not a great deal to tell, Dick took his time about it. At the end, he wound down the story as though it had been a long, epic tale.

“And so, good sir, there you have it. We have been attacked by these wild beasts. Perhaps you are right – perhaps we are in grave danger. Is there any way you can help us? We are not fighting folk, we hobbits, you know.”

[Gwathagor]

The solemn elf nodded slowly as his host, who was evidently the proprietor of the establishment, explained how the wolves had appeared in the East Farthing several days prior. It coincided far too well with the appearance of the wolf trail in the north to be mere coincidence. The hunt was finished, and now the battle would begin; likely today, or perhaps the day after. He only regretted that it had to happen here, in this peaceful country. The wounds will heal quickly, he thought, as he looked away from the hobbit, and out the window across the rolling hills and fields. There is a quiet, merry strength here; it is not obvious, but it is deep. The hobbit had just finished speaking.

"We are not fighting folk, we hobbits, you know.”

The elf stiffened. He became alert, his head high, his eyes unseeing as he concentrated, listening. There it was again. Somebody crying for-.

Before the astonished hobbit, he leapt up, knocking his chair over. "Do you hear it?", he asked, in a voice that was tense and dreadfully in earnest. "A cry for help - that way - north!", facing back towards the door of the inn. "They have come again."

His hand went instinctively to his sword belt, where it found the sheath empty. "My sword!", he cried. The light of battle was in his eyes. He paused and looked back at the hobbit; then in a swift motion he seized the jug of ale from which the hobbit had filled his tankard, emptied it in a long draft, and cast it back upon the table. "Advance payment," he explained. "Come friend, there are enemies to be met!" And he sprang out of the door, his cloak rippling behind him as he rushed like a mad wind for the hill where his sword still quivered hilt deep in the turf, eagerly awaiting its master's hands. This was not a blithe summer breeze. The wrath of this wind carried the foreboding of blood: before it and behind it and with it.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Gentle sound of clacking hooves echoed in the silent air above the Stock Road. Oak and elm trees lining the road quietly whispered in the morning breeze. The early rays of sunlight were shining through the roof of leaves and through tiny holes in Rory's straw hat. The hobbit carter was sitting cross-legged on the rack of his old wooden waggon, while the sorrel pony slowly pulled them towards their destination. It was the first time for the animal to ride through this road, but his owner has been many times through this part of the Shire; either to visit his relatives in Buckland or to deliver a package to some of the hobbits who lived near Brandywine.

Rory Brandybuck was a carter. Carrying goods, news, letters or even hobbit passengers from one part of the South- or Eastfarthing to another was his job. He liked travelling, he liked the smell of fresh air and fresh news in each of the places he visited. Arny Sandburrow, one of the Shiriffs in South Farthing used to say that Rory is more of a Shiriff than him, for he knows about everything that happens between the River and the Downs. Maybe Arny was exaggerating a little bit here, but in the end, he always was. In one thing he was correct, though: Rory Brandybuck of Pincup was the kind of hobbit who sought, listened to and remembered every rumour that he could stumble upon during his journeys. And in turn, whoever appeared in his vicinity had the possibility to hear what the vocal carter experienced, saw, or heard of; for if there was anything from what Rory could not be prevented, it was recounting his rumours to everyone who was around, even if they did not care about his stories at all. And if he had no person to listen to him, the carter spoke at least to his pony, Buttercup. Like now.

"We have a nice day, Buttercup," he said to his companion, who obediently pulled the waggon and obediently listened to his master's voice. "Keep going. This is good weather and a good road." The pony noddled, as if he agreed with the words. The carter did not seem to care. "You know what the Tooks did?" he continued in his semi-monologue. "They paved the road from Tookbank to Waymoot. Well yes, the Thain himself gave quite a lot of money for that. The next time we go to Whitwell, we don't need to worry about getting stuck somewhere in the fields as the last time. But it took them long. This road is better. Even when it gets wet, the water may drain away to the fields. All roads in this part of the Shire are built like that. Well, most of them."

Rory stopped for a moment and listened. It seemed to him as if he heard something far, far away, a sound that did not belong to this place. But maybe he was mistaken.

"It's nothing, Buttercup," he said to the pony, who did not care at all and pulled the waggon. "Well, what was I saying. Never mind. We must be near the Stock now. Andy said one of his cousins will be moving there. That's the one who was supposed to marry that Took who was, wait, the Thain's... hmm... second cousin? Yes, that must be him. Paladin was his name. Well, he is marrying someone else, you see. One of the Banks. Ah, here we are."

The waggon slowly steered into the village. The Stock was still half asleep, though several figures could be recognised moving among and around the low houses. Rory looked around, not willing to drive right through the village. There he saw it - the familiar sign. As if he knew the intentions of his master, the pony turned towards the inn, slowing down; and finally he stopped near the entrance. Rory jumped down from the rack, raising dust as his large hairy feet hit the ground. Not caring about mote embedding on the front of his white shirt, he turned and started unharnessing the pony. He shot a lothing look towards the stables. "There's no need to bother the ostler, Buttercup," he spoke towards the pony. "Go and find your own graze while I have mine. Just don't eat any farmer's cabbage like the last time." With these words, he left the pony and the ladden waggon alone and walked to the door.

"Good morning!" he sang out upon entering. He turned to face the bar and smiled at the innkeeper. "I come a long way," he said. "But I thought that a dip of the best beer in the Eastfarthing could refresh me a little." A coin clinked against the bar. "Belive it or not, but in Deephallow, they once served the Master of Buckland water instead of beer. He was there on a visit, you see. But it was late in the evening and the Master was so tired after the journey that he did not even notice!" Rory smiled once again, showing his pearl-white teeth. "But don't count on that with me. I have a long journey ahead still, and I can tell beer from water." He turned to overlook the room. "How's the business going? I heard that in Woodhall, they had to close their Inn for awhile, because the locals did not have time to visit it for a month! Imagine that! But I hope this is not your case," he said, turning back to the host.