The Golden Perch Inn

[Forest Elf]

Gable looked up at him. For some reason she liked his new face better than his first one. His laugh sounded rather nice too, it had been quite some time since she heard another elf's laugh.

She laughed slightly and said, "It is fine. Actually, to be honest, most people around here find me strange. Who wouldn't, most girls don't wear boys' clothes from time to time like I do. And my name is Gable. It's nice to meet you."

She looked up at the sky, remembering previous times. She couldn't help but to remember the rounds of laughter she had with everyone here. She found herself sad when the thought of this all ending soon came to mind. With all the wolves about, she wondered how much longer the Inn would last. Then she shook her head to clear her mind of thought.

She had already told him about the pony. "Where was I?" she asked herself, absent-mindedly. "Ah, yes. I remember I’d just got done telling you about the pony…well; the owner of the pony is still unknown. We’re not even sure if the owner’s alive…” a shadow came over her eyes as the questions filled her mind again. She blinked, interrupting herself.

She sighed softly, inwardly, remembering the past events, “The wolves attacked the barn the next morning. For some odd reason, it seems that they were after the pony…it puzzles me though. Most wolves don’t go around chasing after one certain prey, their options vary…” Her mind trailed off into thought for a few seconds before she shook the questions out of her mind. “Then there was the attack last night with the same wolves you just slain, I still find it hard to believe that I actually slept in that tree… the hobbit!” she said, suddenly hitting her hand with her forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot him there! He’s in the tree next to the one I was in. I should head back and wait for him to wake. It would be awful if he woke suddenly and there was no one there…”

She turned and stopped, suddenly remembering something. She looked over her shoulder at the elven warrior, “You can head over to the Inn, I’m sure that you must be tired. But, now that I think of it, there was also a silver locket; I don’t know if the owner has claimed it yet or not. I found it in the pony’s stable. I don’t know if that’s of any importance to you or not, and those of us at the Inn are unable to open it. It has a small lock on the side of it, which a small key is needed to open.”

[Groin Redbeard]

Groin strode down the streets with a merry expression lighting up his face. It wasn't often he came to these here parts. He was just returning from visiting his good friend Grioger, who lived west near the roots of the Blue Mountains.

He had walked all day, he was not tired, but he was in need of refreshment. As soon as he came into town he made a point of visiting the nearest inn to bed down for the night and have a nice ale, or two.

The Hobbit's spoke of an inn called 'The Golden Perch'; so he thought that he'd stay there tonight.He could see the smoke rising from the chimney, probably had breakfast on the stove, he could use a good meal. A few Hobbits sat outside smoking on their pips and exchanging some friendly gossip. Groin loved the “little folks” company, almost like Dwarves, in a way.

The Hobbits stopped their talking just long enough to pass glance at this new comer. Groin walked right pass them, he had too much focus on his that was waiting for him inside.

He had his hand on the door knob, when he looked back to ask the two Hobbits what the inn was serving for dinner, when he noticed to figures coming down the road. They were not men, for their garbs were not like that of man’s: they were richer more bright. Elves! He snarled as they drew closer; yes, they were coming towards him. He opened the door and entered the inn.
“I guess tonight isn’t going to be as jolly as I’d hoped.” He said, muttering under his breath.

[Folwren]

Rain – torrents of rain – Dick was convinced it was his good luck. Just look – two new customers in as many minutes, if not less, and not only that, but it brought his son for a visit as well. It wasn’t Fred’s lucky day, though, poor lad. The man barging through the door and tumbling Fred over like a bowling pin had nearly given Dick a heart attack, but everything was soon set right, including Fred, as the door shut again and the warmth from the fire spread over the common room.

“My apologies, young master,” the man said to the bewildered hobbit child. “I’m afraid I mistook you for a door stop.”

Fred cast him a doubtful glance and wiped his dripping sleeve over his nose. He concentrated hard on the man’s words before a slow grin passed over his face. “Did you, really?” he asked. “Door stops must be awful large and soft in your town.”

“Haha,” the man chuckled. He reached out to rumple the lad’s head and the hat was knocked to the floor. Fred smiled a little broader and ducked to retrieve it, but his hand bounced off of another hobbit’s hand and when he looked up, he saw it was an older one, reaching for the same hat. A look of dismay flooded the boys face.

“That’s your hat?” Fred asked, trying not to be disappointed. He didn’t know why, but the large, floppy brim had made him fall in love with it, he thought. The hobbit guest didn’t have to answer, Fred knew by instinct, and tears were already gathering in his eyes.

“Here, don’t cry,” Songo said, “you can have it – as a gift. Go on, take it.”

Fred looked up, a bright light leaped back into his naturally merry face, and he received the hat gladly. Songo went off to fetch a mug of cider, but in a moment, he was back, and he captured little Fred and led him off a couple paces and launched into an outlandish adventure of his youth.

Dick’s attention and eyes were drawn away from the hobbit and his child as a new character entered the inn. Another man, by all the glories, and one just as wet and muddy and bedraggled as something that cat would drag in. Dick smiled, a little half heartedly this time (someone was going to have to clean all this water and mud up) and leaned his elbows on the bar, waiting and just knowing that the newcomer would want something to warm him.

“A bit of hot cider, if you’ve got it.”

“By all means, sir,” Dick replied. He filled it and returned it to the bar. “You’ve come far today?”

[shaggydog]

Relieved to see that hobbit children seemed as bouncy and resilient as human children, and that the one he had almost squashed was no worse for the wear, Jims proceeded in to the warmth of the common room, swinging his sopping cloak from his shoulders. Spying a row of wooden pegs in the wall next the fireplace on the far wall, the young man strode over and hung the dripping garment up, pitying whichever of the staff would be responsible for mopping up all the mess. He had noticed another traveler, well wet and smattered with mud, entering the inn right on his heels. The Golden Perch was beginning to look more like a Muddy Toad by this point.

Turning his back to the heat of the crackling fire, Jims turned an appraising eye on the large, comfortable room. A long bar ran along the wall to his left, behind which were stacked - to the ceiling - casks! This looked very promising for a start to Jims' commission from his father. Hopefully whoever tended this inn would be able to put Jims onto the hows and wherefores of how he could best arrange the purchase and shipment of some of Stock's fine ale to their somewhat down-at-heel inn in Bree. A middle age hobbit was at that moment behind the bar serving up a mug of drink to another human, the one who had entered the inn just behind Jims, in fact.

Walking over to the clean and well polished bar, Jims' naturally taciturn nature prompted him to take a seat a few spaces down from the other newcomer. The barkeep was just asking the stranger a polite question about his travels, and Jims smiled to himself. How many times had he asked just the same type of question, engaged in the same small talk to make a customer feel at home and welcomed? And in return, how many tales, tall or small, had he been regaled with? The blessing and bane of an innkeeper's life, that - often being the first to hear the latest news of far off places, or even the breaking village gossip, but also having to feign interest in and smile at some of the most boring ramblings, recollections and out and out lies of those travelers who thought they knew how to spin a yarn. Well, with the steady loss of business his father's inn had seen over the past year or more, they could ill afford not to count even such as those a blessing, bringing as they did their few small coins in exchange for the sparse lodgings and simple fare their inn offered.

This particular barman was quick and observant, Jims noted with approval, and as Jims took his seat, the hobbit nodded to him, a questioning look on his face.

"A cup of ale, if you please, master hobbit. When you have a moment" Jims thought he had best sample what was on offer first before deciding on the next step in his quest.

[Eönwë]

Songo was in the process of telling one of his fantastic (he thought) tales, which involved a dragon and lots of fighting, to anyone who was listening (which turned out not to be very many). He had been told it by the same great-uncle who had given him the hat.

But then he saw the barman, who he now knew was the lanord who was called Dick looking at him, and misinterpreting his glance, went up to him and said, pointing to his mug, "Thish ish exshellent shider, good mashter hobbit," his most polite voice, not realising how preposterous this seemed. But out of the corner of his eye he saw a familiar face. It was the Man.

He turned to look at the dark-clothed, slightly shabby man sitting next to him, who was relating his tales of how he had chanced upon the Inn to Dick. He leaned over and said "Hey, I know you. I saw you before the way here when you were-" he stopped suddenly, blushing, and turned away for a moment.

The generous serving of apple cider reached his nose as the barkeeper graciously slid it across the counter. It smelt absolutely delectable, and it wasn't unappealing to watch it refract the already dancing lights from the numerous candles that Dick had lit for the duration of the storm.

Haves maintained a conservative level of politeness to the barkeepers inquisitions.

"Been travelling whenever the daylight would let me then, 'aven't I?" He said pleasantly. "Been almost a week now since I've left the homestead, and surely I can only benefit from getting away from all tha' seclusion that's for true."

Without notice, he was unconventionally addressed by the intoxicated hobbit he had noticed flattering the coatstand earlier. It may have been the angle from the bar, or perhaps the way the light was hitting his face, but the cheerful hobbit looked redder and more unbalanced than ever. Hardly able to understand the slurred words of the halfling, Haves responded in the only logical way any man would when faced with a drunken inquisitor.

"Oh yer, indeed. You got that right, don't ye'."

With the faintest hint of an eyeroll, his eyes caught the other man sitting at the bar a few seats away from him. He cocked his head towards the hobbit and gave a soft chuckle.

[Groin Redbeard]

Groin had been staring out the window of the Inn for quite some time now. His head began to sag, a side affect from long hours of travel and the empty mug of cider. However, he awoke with a start as a roar of thunder filled the sky.

He looked around the room and noticed a few new faces that he hadn't seen before, an elderly man who was talking to a slightly drunk hobbit at the end of the bar, and a younger man a few bar stools down.

Groin began to feel a bit groggy; the rain always had this effect on him. He shook his head vigorously, waking himself again. He noticed the elf at the end of the bar grasping something in his hand, and wearing a kind of dazed look.

Groin got up and walked towards the bar to return his mug, and to reward the innkeeper for his wonderful services. However as he placed his mug on the counter, along with one of his gold coins, he noticed that the elf was staring at him. The elf's eyes were wide open and his body didn't make one move, it was like he was in some sort of daze. This annoyed Groin.

"Hey! You got a problem elf?" Groin roared pointing his finger menacingly, but the elf didn't move.

Groin stormed over to the other end of the bar, but just as he was about to let loose with his tirade, he noticed that the elf didn't seem to be noticing him at all; the elf just stared right past him. Groin grabbed the elf by the arms and began to shake him vigorously.

"Hey, wake up elf! Wake up!"

[shaggydog]

Sipping his ale and waiting amicably to see how much of the other lad’s ventures that individual cared to share, Jims watched the drunken hobbit with a mixture of amusement and appraisal as the little fellow helped himself to a cup of the barman’s mead. In Jims’ assessment, the hobbit was very close to being about as drunk as one can be and still be standing. Jims already felt sorry for the Halfling, knowing how ill he would be feeling come the morning. Cup in hand, the hobbit staggered a few steps and sat down heavily in the seat next to Jims.

Gazing at Jims as through a fog, the hobbit slurred out “Sorry, er . . . Jams is it?”

Jims eyebrows rose in surprise. Was it possible that he knew this little drunkard? One hobbit looked much like all the others to Jims, especially from his height from where he rarely saw much more of them than the tops of their curly heads. Bending forward and down a little to look more closely at the fellow’s face, Jims replied bemusedly, “It’s Jims actually, and do I know you?”

The hobbit eyes glanced off to the side in a glassy way, as he said somewhat indistinctly, “Sozzle m . . .mymy snotworlin today”, which Jims thought might have been meant as, “Sorry . . . my minds not working right today.” Not working indeed! And no wonder.

With an inward sigh, Jims realized that the barman in him would not rest peacefully even when it was not his place to interfere. But he had witnessed the little hobbit’s generous act of gifting his hat to the small hobbit child Jims had almost run over, and he felt more than a little sympathy and concern for the hobbit as he sat swaying gently in his seat beside Jims. He placed a steadying hand on his neighbor’s arm, saying in a friendly way, “Perhaps we are acquainted. Hobbits don’t frequent my father’s inn so often as they do Barleyman’s, but we’ve had more than a few pass through our doors. It’s the Rose & Thistle. Have you ever been to Bree?” As he spoke, Jims other hand moved slowly towards the hobbit’s cup, wondering if he could simply make it ‘disappear’ without causing a ruckus. Depending on their state of intoxication, it was a maneuver that sometimes worked with the more passive drunks. He kept his gaze on the hobbits face, hoping to keep his attention, and, of a sudden, it dawned on him that he did know this particular small one.

“Hairfoot? Hairfoot Doggins?” Jims’ eyebrows went even higher in surprise at this recognition.

Jims was acquainted ever so slightly with the Doggins clan and Songo, more commonly known as ‘Hairfoot’, was generally known as an exceptionally quiet, almost shy member thereof. There had been rumors of his “almost” doing in an orc, but no-one who knew Songo believed a word of it. Songo was not one who had a reputation for being a frequent patron of the various inns of Bree, and Jims’ knowledge of this particular hobbit was limited to no more than two or three times when the hobbit, along with other family members, had been to the Rose to deliver hay for the stable. Why was he then in Stock and how had he come to be so intoxicated?

Ceaselessly inhaling the warm apple cider that had become such a popular beverage during what seemed like an age of stormy weather, Haves allowed himself to make short conversation with those around him. The conversation with the friendly barkeeper was short and generally consisted of well-rehearsed questions from Dick with short, quick responses by himself. Moments away from verbally interrelating with some of the other stranded travellers who had escaped from the storm, he was suddenly addressed by the man who he had signalled to earlier about the comical behaviour of the curly haired hobbit.

“You’ve been on the road a week? Where do you hale from then?” Was what he had said. Obviously such a bland question must have been frequented very often when starting up discussions in a tavern such as the Golden Perch, an establishment that by the looks of its current occupants had more foreigners than locals. Haves decided to grace the other, also young man with a response.

"Aye, a week. Just been travellin' north mostly. I live on a farm y'see, near the quaint hamlet of Norton. It's not common others 'ave 'eard of it, but yer asked where I came from and that's my reply."

Haves exchanged a few brief words with Dick once more, his tongue loosening more and more with each word that escaped from his mouth. After asking the barkeeper if a warm cup of soup was available, he reflected more in depth on the current residents of the dimly lit room. Immediately he observed a stout being, who could not look more well-travelled. Haves had never seen a dwarf, but he had certainly heard of them, and to avoid looking too interested, he refrained from staring and mentally set a reminder to converse with him afterwards, for he looked most likely to be able to broaden Haves' mind with news from outside the borders. His eyes crossed briefly on an elf, and what appeared to be a huddled mass on the floor. It was a wonder he had not trodden over him when he had stormed into the tavern seeking much-needed warmth.

Realizing the conversation had become scarce and that he had been lost in his thoughts and observations, Haves furthered the conversation with the young man a few stools away from him.

"The names Haves, by the by. Pleased to meet yeh. Do ya frequent this tavern often? I'm rather surpised I 'aven't heard of it, it's truly the epitomy of comfort. 'Owever it could just be the contrast between inside 'ere and that hellish storm out there."

He flicked his eyes quickly towards the bar to see how the barkeeper had taken this comment on his workplace.

[shaggydog]

Jims’ questions for the Songo hung in the air between them, the young man wondering if the hobbit had either heard or understood him. The lad on the other side of the hobbit had continued to drink his own cider happily enough and replied to Jims’ earlier conversational gambit with:

"Aye, a week. Just been travellin' north mostly. I live on a farm y'see, near the quaint hamlet of Norton. It's not common others 'ave 'eard of it, but yer asked where I came from and that's my reply."

Jims pondered the possible whereabouts of the previously unheard of Norton, while the other ordered soup. Presently, the lad spoke up again, apparently not averse to exchanging the usual pleasantries of strangers finding themselves billeting at the same inn as they passed in their travels.

"The names Haves, by the by. Pleased to meet yeh. Do ya frequent this tavern often? I'm rather surpised I 'aven't heard of it, it's truly the epitomy of comfort. 'Owever it could just be the contrast between inside 'ere and that hellish storm out there."

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Jims Barleycorn.” Jims felt it safe enough to let go of Songo’s arm and extended his hand in front of the hobbit’s chest towards Haves. “I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting the Golden Perch before. This is my first time. First time in Stock actually.” Beyond that, Jims was a tad reluctant to discuss his errand in public, as a clearly stated desire for whatever ale might be available here might easily drive up the requested price. “I’ve come from Bree myself. My family owns an inn there.”

Although Jims was very much inclined to agree with his fellow traveler that the Perch was indeed a comfortable haven, far more so than the run down Rose, he felt at least enough loyalty to the family honor that he would not admit it openly. So he contented himself with, “I see you got caught in the downpour too. Upon my oath, I believe I could have outrun the rain on foot better than with that sorry excuse for a horse I brought. I wonder if the residents of Stock have a taste for horsemeat.” He grinned broadly and took a last swallow of Dick’s admirable ale.

Haves gave a nervous chuckle upon hearing Jims' remark on his horse. Coming from a poor farming family, he knew only too well the frustration of an inefficient beast of burden and their knack of hindering the simplest of tasks.

"Aye, I fully understand your unease of travelling with stubborn or old animals. Even a short as trip from Bree can feel like you're naviga'in the Misty Mountains."

An obscure thought struck his mind at that moment, and his eagerness to start conversation with the nearby dwarf had laid to rest omnipresently in the back of his mind. His obliviousness to the dwarf's keenness to pick a fight with a nearby elf remained persistent as he turned his attention to the stout being.

"I can't see dwarves even bein' all too fond of horses at their peak health eh?" Haves said as pleasantly as he could, directing the conversation to the well-travelled dwarf. "Do yer use em' at all for manual labour maybe, or 'praps poneys?"

He shrugged hopelessly at Jims, hoping that his curiosity wouldn't be too offensive.

[Eönwë]

Songo just sat there, staring at nothing, realised that he had been talked to.
"sss. s'my name, it is, Erfoot D'genss" he replied. Ah, it was Jims', was it? That pesky son of a pub-owner who was losing business. Why was he here?
Just as he was about to ask him he realised that something was going on between a dwarf and and elf some way along the bar. He tried to look but his eyes were too blurry at such a distance. So he went up to them, to see, but before he knew what had happened, he was lying flat on his back, head facing the ceiling, and unable to move. Everything went black.

He woke up what seemed like few hours later (he didn't know precisely how long) with a splitting headache. He vowed never to drink alcohol again. As he stood up, looking around, he realised that the elf and dwarf had moved, but the two men were still conversing. He went over to them, and heard the murmur of their conversation. He waited for a suitable moment, and, as soon as there was a pause, he asked Jims "What brings you here?"

[shaggydog]

Jims too shared Haves' lack of knowledge of the ways of dwarves. To his recollection there had never been one staying at their inn at Bree. He wasn't even sure he had heard tell of any frequenting Bree itself these past many years. The times were strange and growing more disquieting by the month. Many an unusual tale was being told of unexpected travelers crossing through the land. But these most put down to mere fancy, or too much ale. Jims himself had paid them little mind, as the business of keeping body and soul together was becoming more difficult with each passing season. It was with great interest then that Jims pricked up his own ears to catch the dwarf's reply to Haves' question.

Hairfoot Droggins never did reply to Jim's own inquiry, but after a moment of silence, the hobbit had slipped off the seat next to Jims, wandered away, and then without warning crumpled to the floor. Jims had been on the point of getting up to assist the little fellow, but Songo had very quickly come to and regained his own, albeit wobbly, feet. Jims kept an eye on him as he negotiated a somewhat erratic path back to the bar, coming to rest near Jims' elbow. "Whasbringsyoushere?" tumbled from Songo's lips, and Jims took it to be a question meant for him.

With a mix of slight concern and more amusement, Jims replied evasively, "Oh, just getting out and about, you know. It never hurts to see what others in the business are up to. Perhaps pick up an idea or two." Jims' errand wasn't exactly secret. He only wished to pick his own time and place for discussing business matters with the barkeep, or the inn's owner. That thought once again brought to mind Jims' stabling needs, and, hoping the barkeep had had time to sort things between the dwarf and the elf, he called out down to that end of the bar,

"Oh, by the way, I turned my horse into the first empty stall in your stable. I hope that's alright. I didn't see the stable boy about. With this downpour, I think I'll be staying the night over, if you have accomodations."

Awaiting the barman's reply, Jims said casually to Haves, "Are you stopping here, or do you think you'll press on once the weather clears?"

[Dunwen]

Ruby clutched her doll and pouted. It was a lovely morning to be riding in their cart, but Lily was so mean to drag her out of bed first thing. Scowling, she thought about what had happened the night before:


Ruby's heart raced when she heard the footsteps down the hall. She stopped and tried to hide, but it was no use. Periwinkle walked into her room and Ruby had cheeks as red as her name. Ruby wanted to cry.

“You’re Lily’s little sister, aren’t you?” Peri’s voice betrayed her irritation. “Very well, where is your room?” When Ruby refused to answer, even after she repeated the question, the older girl became downright angry.

“Right, you’re coming with me. I’m sure Mr. Boffin can tell me which room you and your sister are in.” Taking her small hand while Ruby was still frozen in place, Peri marched her back into the common room. Ruby didn’t try to escape.

The young lady easily found the innkeeper. Dick kindly told her which room Ruby and her sister were in. Still holding her firmly by the hand, Peri found it and knocked loudly.

Lily opened to door, much to her displeasure Peri was standing at the door with her little sister Ruby. She proptly asked what she had done this time. Since she had nothing to lose now, Ruby confessed and gave back the items she had taken. Lily just about blew up, but controlled her temper. Lily and Ruby would be leaving to their Brandybuck relations, and they would send a letter back to Bywater asking their parents to come and take Ruby back home, no stops on the way... and so the next day at the crack of dawn, they left.

[Groin Redbeard]

Groin opened the door and stepped quietly into the in, the place was ablaze with commotion. Breakfast was being served to all the Inn’s occupants. Hobbit’s dashed in and out of the kitchen door, carrying platters staked with drinks and food.

Groin looked around the room searching for an empty table. There it was, he started making his way around the various tables when a when he was stopped.

“Um... excuse me, sir.” Groin looked around. A female Hobbit was tapping him on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave your axe at the door.” She pointed to a stack of weapons all neatly assorted against the wall. Groin nodded his head and made his way back towards the door. He withdrew the huge axe from his back and gently placed it by the door, but instead of making his way an open table he folded his arms and leaned against the wall. The door opened again and the Elves, that he saw coming down the road entered the room. He stared at them for a few seconds until one of them, a girl, met his gaze. Groin bobbed his head in a short sort of a bow, and managed a smile.

He never did like Elves, but he wouldn’t his disgust show it out in public like most of his kind did. ‘Be courteous to all, but intimate with few’: that was his motto.
He watched as the Hobbit’s moved in and out of the kitchen, finally someone noticed him.
“Hello there, my name is Toller. What can I get you?”
“How’ bout a glass of your finest brew?” Groin said, glancing bar.
“I’ll get it right away.” The Hobbit sped off towards the kitchen.
Groin took his helmet off, still holding it in his left hand, and brushed his thick red hair with his hand. A fine establishment, yes this would suit me just fine for the next couple of days. Just then the boy appeared again holding a foaming glass in one hand.
“Ahh, thank you boy.” Groin outstretched his arms, ready to grab the glass.
“Cheers!” he said, placing a coin in the boys hand and holding the beer in the other.

“Boy, we sure are getting a lot of your folk around here.” Toller said, while he pulled up a chair and sat down. Groin sighed satisfied with the incredible taste of the ale.
“And what might you be meaning by that?” Groin said, in a matter that was by no ways threatening.
“Well we had a Dwarf in here a couple days ago by the name of Kuric. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“Can’t say that I have, I know very few people.” He took another sip of his ale.
“Well anyways, this Dwarf called Kuric came into the Inn one evening, and he says: ‘Bring three of your finest ales!’ and so Mr. Dicks orders me to get them for him. I bring them over to him and he starts asking me about Mr. Bilbo Baggins……”
In no time at all Groin was lost in deep conversation with the Hobbit: Troller, who was recounting the story of Kuric.

[Gwathagor]

The tall elf with the dark hair and the blood-stained cloak stepped into the Golden Perch, quietly closing the door behind him. He paused, lost in thought for a moment, then strode to a corner table and sat down with his back against the wall. There he leaned, staring at the middle of the ceiling and turning the matter over in his mind. Things were swiftly becoming more and more complicated...though clearer? Perhaps. He was afraid to draw conclusions yet.

Why should the wolves go out of their way to oppress a lone pony with no rider? Unless the secret lay in the silver locket...that locket that could not be opened.

It struck a note, somewhere, deep in the past, deep in his memory. Something sad...

The thought began to pass, but he pursued it. Deeper and deeper into his mind he delved, turning over layers of memories laid down over many ages of the earth, catching glimpses, as he sank down through the past, of the sensation that had sparked his curiosity.

What was it? What does this have to do with me?

Snatches of old tunes and songs and ancient poems drifted up to him through the mist and the sea-waves. Memories and images flew to him across the fields of his mind: images of majestic forests and graven halls, of torch-lit banquets and glittering harps, skillfully played, all calling to him, reminding him of something that he had long since forgotten...or buried.

Then the mists cleared and he was no longer at the Inn, or in the village of Stock. He was not even in the Shire.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Rorimac turned when he heard the sound of door opening. What he saw indeed stunned him. A big bearded dwarf stood in the door. Rory opened his mouth wide but immediately reminded himself to close it. A dwarf! When the innkeeper told him about strange customers visiting the Inn, he could not imagine fully how actually seeing such a... thing... would affect him.

Speechless, he observed the bearded stranger as he put away his large axe and then walked to the bar. Now, there is something worth examining deeper, flashed through the carter's head. But before he could react, soft footsteps were heard outside the door and in the next moment, an elf stepped into the room. The thoughts of lilac painted smials in Tuckborough and newly paved roads to Waymoot vanished from Rory's mind at once. Something unspeakable was happening here and he was at it! Amazed, he could not think of anything but the moment. He was so tall! He was dark-haired and he did not look very pleasant, yet in something he was fascinating to the curious hobbit. Rory did not know what was happening around him, not even he noticed how the red-bearded mountain marched around, speaking with the server. He just gazed at the elf.

Suddenly, the newcomer moved and something broke. Rory's mind was back at his normal self. He looked over his shoulder to see the dwarf and the server speaking about something. He was torn: surely the two were not speaking about anything usual. He could easily slip in and listen to their dialogue. But this far, it seemed to him that the server was speaking more and the dwarf was only listening. The carter hesitated. He turned his attention to the elf, who moved to the corner and sat down. Rory noticed that his cloak is bloodstained, and he noticed also the sword the elf was carrying. Chills ran down his spine. Now the elf did not seem as fascinating to him as he seemed a moment ago: the hobbit's only wish was to stay away from him, and as far as possible. He looked over his shoulder once more, and then he decided.

"Excuse me," he said, taking his newly refilled mug, and leaving the innkeeper alone he sprung to the discussing couple. Being all ears, he listened to talk of the dwarf and the hobbit, storing everything he heard in his memory so that later, he could bring that up in some other inn.

However interesting what he heard could have been, Rory was aware of the fact that time is moving and that he cannot spend whole day at the Golden Perch. And yet, he would rather hear something more from the dwarf himself. When there was a pause in the dialogue, Rory immediately became aware that it is his opportunity to intervene.

"Pardon me, mister Dwarf," he said, looking upwards to the red-bearded stranger, "I see you have come from afar." Actually, there was nothing to tell Rory that this assumption of his was true, but that much was clear to the hobbit that no dwarves lived in the Shire. "I am Brandybuck, Rorimac Brandybuck, from Pincup, you surely heard of that place, haven't you? It is really impressive to meet someone that... erm... I mean, someone from outside... and you have to know, is anything interesting happening out there?" As most of the hobbits, Rory divided the world into two parts: the Shire and "outside". It was clear, of course, that the world "outside" is unbelievably dull and alien as much as it was dangerous, but there was still a good chance that something interesting - like strange news from Bree or another, to hobbits unknown part of the world - could make a good topic to speak about with artless and sedate hobbits. Breathless, the carter watched the dwarf, awaiting eagerly whether his question is going to meet with success.

[Groin Redbeard]

Groin still stood against the wall listening to Toller. He was just taking the last sip of ale when another hobbit entered the conversation.
"Pardon me, mister dwarf, I see you have come from afar." Groin looked at him a bit startled.
"I am Brandybuck, Rorimac Brandybuck, from Pincup, you surely heard of that place, haven't you? It is really impressive to meet someone that... erm... I mean, someone from outside... and you have to know, is anything interesting happening out there?" Groin laughed as he put his empty ale glass down.
“Well,” he said still laughing, “good morning to you too. My name’s Groin." He grabbed the hobbit's hand and shook it.
“Excuse me sir,” Toller said chiming in, “I’ve been neglecting my duties; if you’re still here tonight I can finish the story.”
“I’ll be here Toller, I’ll see tonight.” Toller quickly backed away to another table and started cleaning the mess of dirty plates.

“I’m sorry mister hobbit, what did you say your name was?”
“Rorimac Brandybuck.”
“Well mister Brandybuck, in answer to your question, there seems to be quite an uproar down south in a place called Gondor. Have you heard of the place?” the hobbit paused and scratched his head trying to remember.
“Nope can’t say that I have.”
“Well anyway, I heard it from a Ranger that some kind of dark lord, or something, has got the elves ‘round that parts pretty jumpy.” The Hobbit’s eyes gleamed as Groin continued talking.
“Now I can’t say that I agree with that kind of talk. elves are always trying to make a big deal out of nothing.” Groin stroked his chin trying to think of something that a Hobbit would like to hear.
"As a matter of fact something did happen to me a couple of days ago right on the edge of the Old Forest."
the hobbit's ears perked up, and began to pull up a seat.

“Now I’m not one to stay around in a place for to long a time,” said Groin, while pulling up a chair and sitting next to the hobbit, “I’ve spend most of my time wondering the wilderness of Arnor.”
“One day I was cooking my evening dinner. Nothing much just a couple rabbits that I was able to catch with my snare. Anyways, I was starting the fire when I heard a wolf’s howl in the distance. Well I didn’t pay any heed to it at the time; wolves may be uncommon in these here parts, but nothing unusual. The sun has gone down a long time ago, so I build the fire up real good to keep all of them nocturnal creatures away. I got out my bedroll and was unfolding it when I heard rustling in the bushes to my right; I grab my axe that was lying next to me. No sooner then when I got to my feet, a wolf sprang from the bushes letting loose with a snarl. I charged the beast, my axe raised over my head; the wolf dodged my first strike, and would have been on me in another second, but it stopped. It sat there as if waiting for something; immediately I knew I was being played with, to my back another wolf leapt from the shadows, but I dealt him a blow that knocked him dead at my feet. I turned to meet the other and drove my axe through his skull.” The hobbit eyes were wide with excitement.

“I saw more shadows in the distance: more of the pack was coming. I knew I couldn’t hold them off were I was positioned, and so I ran to the biggest tree I could find, and started climbing as quickly as I could. Before I could even get up the first branch, wolf…” Groin paused remembering the sight of the creature, “No, it was a warg. Yes, I’m sure it was a warg; out of nowhere it leapt upon me, its giant paw scarring my right shoulder!” Groin was almost on the verge of shouting, acting out every move. Groin looked about at the hobbits; some of who were giving him annoyed glares. Groin cleared his throat proceeded with his story, in a quieter tone.

“Now luckily, when the warg had jumped on me, he landed on my axe. I rolled the warg off myself, leaving my axe imbedded in his chest. I leapt for the nearest branch, and caught it with my left arm, and pulled myself up.
I stayed on that branch for the duration of the night, until the rest of the wolves left.”

Groin reached into his pouch and pulled out a short hand carved pipe.
“Absolutely fascination!” Rorimac said with a wide grin on his face, “What do you think this means having wolves this far south.”
“I don’t rightly know,” Groin said, stuffing his pipe with some sort of weed and lighting it, “But something’s driving them from the north. Probably not enough game for them to hunt, of course that’s just my personal opinion.” He puffed on his pipe, a trail of smoke protruding from his mouth.
“But you can be assured of this mister Brandybuck: everything I’ve told you is the truth.” Groin reached with his left arm and lifted the leather armor, covering his right shoulder, revealing a freshly dealt scar.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

During the dwarf's speech, Rory observed him with interest. The bearded customer kept making funny movements, sometimes the hobbit was even afraid that he is going to break something. Not that the tale about the wolves would make the carter excited: if anything, it sounded dangerous. But still it was something new, something interesting enough to mention to casual travelmates. At least it was better than the nonsenses the dwarf was saying about the elves. At first, Rory was afraid that he starts to recount some dull events that happened in some far-away land. Fortunately, he chose not to. The wolves on the edge of the Old Forest were surely a far more exciting topic.

Quite unsettling, too, however. The carter scratched his back. He was not that stupid: his father recounted him about the Fell Winter when the wolves entered the Shire, three years before Rory was born. Rory's father and his uncle Sigismond were among the young hobbits who helped Mr. Puddifoot and Mr. Maggot to drive the wolves off the frozen fields of the Marish. And it was around that time when uncle Sigismond died... Rory shuddered. The journey towards the eastern borders of the Shire did not seem as pleasant as before. Who knows what can happen? The dwarves surely have a tendency to exaggerate, but still, if there are wolves... Rory never saw a wolf, except for a moth-destroyed tail that belonged to his mother; a trophy from his father's one and only adventure. But could it be possible that a wolf would slip into the Shire, right in front of the watchful hobbit guards of the Hay Gate? No, that was not probable. Maybe the outside lands were getting a little bit more dangerous now, but the Shire was perfectly safe. As always.

Rorimac placed the empty mug away on the table. With disgust, he looked at the dwarf's revealed scar. Nevertheless, he thought, I would not like to stay outside at night. If possible, he would rather spend the night under cover of his cousins' house in Bucklebury. And the sooner he returns home to Poppy, the better.

"You should put some way-bread on that," he advised matter-of-factly to the dwarf, pointing at the scar. "Old widow Brownlock does that and it helps. My Buttercup once cut his leg on some sharp stone, and she helped us; she poured some water with the way-bread on it and it ceased to bleed. And later, my Buttercup could walk without any problems and it disappeared after a few days, really."

He picked up the empty mug. "It was pleasant to talk to you, Mister Dwarf, but I really have to go now. Hopefully Buttercup did not make a mess in front of the inn. He's capable to do that, you know. Once, during our stay at Mr. Madoc Hornblower, he ate whole patch of cabbage and broke a hoe that was lying there. Don't ask me how he did that. Well, of course he did not eat all the cabbage... he only started every head and then threw it away. But he had calmed down since then, you see. After that he did it only... once. But since I peppered his tongue after he did that, I believe he's not going to try that again. Still, who knows what might be going on in his head, eh? Well, have a nice day, sir, and... goodbye."

[Groin Redbeard]

"Farwell master Brandybuck." Said Groin continuing to puff on his pipe after the carter had left the table. He stared at the elf who was sitting alone at the other end of the Inn. Groin noticed the blood that stained the elf's cloak. Probably got into trouble with them wolves last night.

Groin began to feel restless, he tapped his pipe on the table extinguishing it, and placed it pack into his pouch. He reached over for his axe and began to strap it on his back. A long walk in the woods would subdue the restlessness that he was feeling. Groin reached for the door handle and stepped outside, breathing deeply. He set off down the road at a leisurely pace and noticed a group of hobbits making their way to the Inn.
"Ahh!" he said aloud in frustration. Too many people around here for his liking, and set off down the path at an even faster rate, but he planned on coming back to lodge at the Inn for the night. After all, Toller hadn't finished his story.