The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[piosenniel]

It is now early morning, just after first light. The sun is peeking over the horizon and into a cloudless sky. Rain was heavy last night, but it has now cleared up. Paths and byways are still quite muddy.

Cook and the kitchen crew have been up for quite a while. The fire in the common room has been relit and is crackling merrily to drive away the dawn chill. The smell of freshly baked bread and sweet rolls wafts out from the cooling racks in the kitchen, as does the heavier scents of potatoes fried up with onions, thick slices of bacon, and scrambled eggs. Pots of thick oat porridge mingle their homey fragrance into the welcoming scents.

Early risers in the Inn are nursing cups of strong, sweet tea as are those farmers up early about their business . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Hearing the knock on the door, Miz Bella hurried over and invited Camille inside, "I am so glad to see you. There's much to be done. Have you eaten breakfast?" she added.

Camille said yes and explained that she'd eaten twice, bread and butter at home as well as two bowls of porridge in the Common Room.

"Good! You'll need your strength. I just finished breakfast myself. Let's have a look at the classroom.."

The classroom was in a state of chaos. Chairs were overturned, tables flung everywhere, and old papers thrown down; the entire room was littered with rolling dustballs. There were even some old household items scattered here and there. "I've no idea what they used this room for before. It almost looks as if someone had a jumble sale here." Miz Bella pushed a chair out of the way so they could enter the room. "Here's a broom and dustpan as well as some rags and a mop. You can put the trash in the cloth bag over there. I want to work on some plans for my lessons but when you need to move the furniture you can give me a holler. I expect we'll want to put some of the tables out in the courtyard and have them moved to a storage shed."

Bella was relieved to see that Camille looked happier than she had last night. The lass picked up the broom and enthusiastically began to sweep until Miz Bella interrupted.

"Ah, I almost forgot. Do you see the two crates over by the door? The Mayor sent those over this morning. Lots and lots of books from the Bag-end library. And Master Samwise plans to send two of his little ones to the school. I was so pleased."

"What shall I do with them, Miz Bella?"

"See the shelves over there" Miz Bella pointed to a series of shelves lining the wall. "Set the books on the shelves and then put them in alphabetical order according to the titles. That may take a while, but it will help me to find them later on."

Camille looked stonily ahead and said nothing but Miz Bella had already whizzed back through the door and returned to her own work.

[Noinkling]

‘No offense taken by your question . . . Anyopâ is it?’ Benat shifted in his chair, making himself more comfortable. ‘We Beornings consider our animals as part of our family, so to speak. Or at least consider them friends. And so it is not our custom to kill and eat them.’ He gave his tablemate a toothy grin. ‘The killing we do is left for our foes. For ages of my people those have been the foul Orcs that infest the Misty Mountains and some of the wolves and other creatures that were corrupted by their master. And thankfully those grow less of late.’

The server came out with a large tray, loaded with three platters of hot food and a basket of toast with pots of butter, jam, and honey. Cullen stood up, greeting the arrival with a grin and a wag if his tail. He set to with purpose, not waiting for an invitation or permission.

‘Plenty to eat here without meat, eh?’ said Benat, buttering a piece of toast, then loading it up with jam.

[Huan]

‘Indeed!’ replied Anyopâ, casting an eager glance at his own platter of savory food. He paused before he picked up his own fork and began to eat. Turning his gaze toward the west, he observed a brief moment of silence.

Noting his companion’s gaze, he smiled as he took up his knife and buttered a piece of toast. ‘We, too, have our own customs,’ explained Anyopâ. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it how we men wed ourselves to custom to remind us of our better selves lest we lose those selves altogether or they become so thinned out in the passage of our daily lives that we cannot recall them when they are most needed.’

He laughed taking up a forkful of his food. ‘Woolgathering mixed with eggs and potatoes! I hope I have not put you off your breakfast with such thoughts so early in the day.’

[Undómë]

Hob sipped the warm cider. Combined with the heat from the fire he was feeling quite toasty. Breakfast had been quite satisfying; the eggs and potatoes and toast running with honey had filled up every hollow. He sat back satisfied in his chair and pulled out his worn leather pouch of pipeweed. ‘One pipe-full,’ he promised himself, ‘just time enough to let everything settle in nicely, then old Strawberry and I will be off to make our rounds.’

Near him, enjoying their own platters of the Shire’s morning offerings, Benat and Anyopâ sat enjoying each other’s company. The room was not that noisy, many were still abed, and he could not help but hear their little discussion. He puffed quietly on his stained clay pipe, wondering where their thoughts would take them next.

[Saelind]

Slowly, the sun inched higher in the heavens and the cool breezes of the Shire crept through the half open window under which both Thalion and Neviel continued to sleep. The young Elf slept peacefully, his body curled up in a lazy little ball, his head buried deep in the soft goose-down pillow that Ruby had given to him. His father, however, was not so fortunate. Thrashing and turning from side to side, Thalion found his sleep interrupted by eerie images and whispered words that echoed uncomfortably through his head.

The visions he saw were lifelike and disturbing. Thalion struggled to wake but found he could not. He could not even tell whether he was still sleeping soundly in the Shire and had simply fallen into a troubled dream, or if the master of visions had whisked his body and fea off to Aman without his consent. He had never been to the isle, but the misty gardens, silver willows and soft beauty of the place lookedly exactly like Lorien, the resting place of the Valar and Eldar. Thalion gazed across a small lake and spied a willowly figure approaching. For a moment, his heart pounded furiously. Surely, this was his wife. But coming more closely, he could see that the woman, although familiar to him, was not Anoriel.

Mother, mother? Is that you? Thalion recognized the woman and ran forward joyfully for it had been many years since his mother and father had left for the West.

Yes, it is me, Thalion. Your mother. But do not step closer. You do not belong here.....at least not yet.

But, why not? I am an Elf. I have a right to sail West, just as you have done. Neviel and I are on our way to the Havens and soon we will join you on the shores of Aman.

Why do you do this thing, Thalion? You were ever a headstrong child, and I see that you have not changed. Did you not listen to your beloved wife and the words she shared with you the night before she lay down her life.

Anoriel, have you seen her? Has she come to the Blessed Shore, and does she fare well?

Well enough, my son. But she would fare better if you would heed the wise advice she gave you. There are few children here, Thalion. Aman is not a place for the getting of families. There would be no one with whom Neviel could romp or play. Give your son that chance to be young. For he will have many years to live till the end of Arda comes about.

His voice full of sadness, Thalion objected. But here too we have few young Elves. Everywhere I journey in Middle-earth, I see only tattered remnents of what used to be. There is so much loneliness....so many Elves have left. Should I not bring Neviel to Aman so he can be with his people?

In time, Thalion, all in due time. But are there not children in Middle-earth? Are you so proud that your son can not play with a hobbit or a human or a dwarf. Would you deny him the chance to laugh?

But I am an Elf. It has always been our way to hold to the side.

Always? That is a strong word. Have you not heard of Legolas Greenleaf who is close friend with Gimli the Dwarf and King Elessar? Are you so proud that you and your son can not do what he has done......to learn something of the ways of the other free folk of Middle-earth?

I don't know, mother. I have heard of this Legolas but I had never thought in terms quite like that.

Then, think again, and remember the words of your wife. The sea-longing has not yet come upon you or Neviel. Someday, it will come, and you will find your way west in Cirdan's vessel or in a ship made with your own hands. But for now, look about and open your eyes. There are beautful things to see and learn. Share these with your son.

The words trailed off, and the images receded. Thalion awoke with a start, leapt from his bed, and ran to the window. Outside he saw a fine green land, hills and fields tended with loving hands. It was as if he had never truly seen them before....

[Noinkling]

Benat chewed thoughtfully on his mouthful of toast, then waggled his fork slightly in the air as if a thought had just formed and was trying to make its way out. ‘I think you’ve hit on something, my friend,’ he said to Anyopâ, perching his fork on the edge of the plate. ‘And no I’ve not been put off my food. It would take more than a bit of speculation to do that.’ He took a mouthful of now lukewarm tea and washed the toast down.

‘I’ve not traveled to many places, mostly just those about my own home. But those men who have traveled through have seemed to have their particular customs they cling to; little supports that gird their lives. I’ve seen the Rangers that pass through the northern vales use that same custom as did you just before a meal. And there are others that I’ve noted and of course those of my own people. And I assume your people have many others of their own, too.’ Benat was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Things as you say that keep us on a right track . . . or a better track . . .’

He leaned forward, a considering look on his face. ‘I’ve often wondered about the Halflings. They are Men, too, or so I’ve come to think. Smaller in stature, but not in spirit. At any rate that’s the way the stories go, even from my own Granda. I’ve seen them now from Breeland to Bywater. They’ve a lovely way about them, a solid sort of way, though sometimes guarded with us bigger folk.’ Benat furrowed his brow and pushed about a bit of egg with his toast. ‘I wonder what customs strengthen them?’

[Tevildo]

It did not take long for Camille to set the room in order. She had soon deposited the trash into a bag, swept and mopped the floor, and used her rags to polish the shelves and furniture. Since most of the items in the room were light and easy to move, she had even managed to arrange everything without having to disturb Miz Bella. Most of the tables and chairs were set up in cozy clusters so that several students could sit at a single table and help each other, just as Miz Bella had suggested she do. She had dragged a few pieces of furniture out the door and left these things to be carried off and stored in one of the small wooden sheds that sat out at the back of the yard.

Fresh from these small victories and feeling more confident than she expected, Camille went over to open the two larger crates. The boxes were overflowing with an assortment of books. Camille couldn't read most of the titles, but even by looking at the pictures she could see that they covered a variety of topics. There were beautiful books showing birds and animals in the Shire, thin books with a page for each of the alphabet letters, fat books with pictures of dragons and heroes, and still other books with lots of words but no nice pictures to tell her what was happening. Camille dumped the latter to the side and began rummaging through the others, looking over the pictures and maps. She was especially intrigued by one that showed pictures of Elves, even some that had drawings of Elven children playing games.

To tell the truth, until Camille had come to the Dragon, she had never met an Elf in her life. The ones she had met in Bywater seemed quite nice, but they still frightened her. They seemed to know everything, and Camille could not understand why they would even want to bother with a hobbit. Still, the Elf Mithalwen had smiled at her and had been especially kind to her brother, something that counted a lot with Camille.

Although she was enjoying looking at the pictures in the books, Camille reminded herself that she should starting doing what Miz Bella had told her. She quickly unpacked all the volumes and set them on the shelves so she could see the titles and then started trying to put things in order. She remembered the letters "A, B, C" but beyond that the letters disappeared into a hazy mist and things got a little jumbled. After working for about thirty minutes, she had arranged just six books, and she wasn't sure about the order of the last two. She sat in frustration, wondering what to do next, when there was a slight rapping on the door.

[littlemanpoet]

With the rising sun, Falowik awoke, lying on the ground near a tree behind the Green Dragon Inn, to find Uien standing near him, her arms outstretched, facing the rising orb; its blinding light made his head hurt.

"Good morning," he said.

She turned. "Good morning to you as well. How do you feel?"

Falowik put his hands to his head. "Horrible. I really must spend less time in the hospitality of hobbitish inns."

"Or any, for that matter."

"Heal me, O Queen of the Dawn."

She laughed. "I must save my strength for a more demanding labor today. Besides, it would do you no harm to suffer the pains of your own overdrinking.

"You are cruel, my love."

"There is a new Elf at the Inn, whose thought came to me last night. I would see who he is. And Mithalwen will be making braces for the hobbit boy Rory. I must speak with her; it seems that she is not so used to the osanwë."

"Then she and I have something in common," Falowik drawled.

"Up with you, Lauréatan! There is breakfast to be had and aid to be given to Mithalwen, who seems to think that she must do this in a more difficult fashion than need be."

Falowik laboriously sat up. "The wise Elf Lady of the evening stars knows best what must needs be done." He half smiled, watching her through squinted eyes.

She stamped her foot and put her hands on her hips. "Are you sure you have not been listening to my thought? I do not know best, and must be careful not to needlessly tread underfoot the best thought of others. All the more reason to seek out Mithalwen."

Falowik got his feet under him and grunted himself to his feet. "I need a bath."

"There is a stream you know of well," Uien replied, "where I learned that your hair was not dark but golden."

"Oh, I remember," Falowik grinned. "I suppose that was all you learned?"

"Shush! I am a proper Elf Lady, you human lout."

"Human lout that you have sworn undying devotion to."

Uien tilted her head and regarded him measuringly. "That ale is both on your breath and coming off your tongue. I've never heard you speak so brassily."

"Maybe I should drink more often and copiously."

They continued their banter hand in hand as they walked toward the inn, Falowik detouring to the stream where the water ran deep; Uien went in search of Mithalwen.

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger tries to “help” Camille . . .

Ginger balanced the tray against her hip as she rapped on the door. In the once empty area outside the room were now stacked some odds and ends of furniture. Cook had sent her with a pitcher of cider, several mugs, and a plate of flaky currant scones to Miz Bella’s classroom. There was plenty of work to be done, long dusty, thirsty work. Camille and Miz Bella would have need of a little sustenance.

She thought she heard a muffled voice, or at least some sort of sound, through the door. Not wanting to wait any longer, she took it for a ‘Come in!’ and opened the door. Her mouth dropped open in an ‘O’ of surprise. Cook had made her believe this room was a shambles. But here was Camille with everything clean looking and in order. Save for the books, that is. Camille was sitting down a look of frustration on her face. There were piles of books on the floor, and a few arranged on one shelf . . . a very few.

‘My stars, Miss!’ Ginger exclaimed. ‘Look what you’ve done with this place!’ She put the tray down on one of the nearer tables, and bent over to pick up one of the books. ‘Oh, look at this! I think I’ve seen just this very coney in one of my hedgerows. And this bird – one just like this nests in one of the apple trees near my sister’s burrow.’ Ginger put the book back down and picked up one of the thick ones. She frowned as she turned through several pages of printing, then her face brightened at one of the pictures. ‘It will take me forever,’ she muttered, ‘to be able to read what this is all about.’ She leafed through a few more pages. ‘Just look at all these letters! Stare at ‘em long enough and they pull tricks on your eyes it seems.’

Ginger poured a cup of cider for Camille and handed it to her. ‘I’ve got a little time. Want some help getting these books on the shelves?’ She bent down and started separating the piles into other smaller piles. ‘Don’t know how you were doing it, but how about putting all the picture books together and arrange them by height. The others we could separate into fat and thin and arrange them by height.’ Ginger looked around at the shelves. ‘They’d be nice and neat that way, like the rest of the room.’

[Nurumaiel]

The door to the new schoolroom opened and Marigold crept in, rubbing her eyes and gazing about her in a dazed fashion. When she saw Camille, she burst into a radiant smile, more confident now that she saw she knew someone in the room.

"Goodness, but I'm aching!" she said, bending down and rubbing her legs. "I have bruises all over me from falling off that horse. But I'm so glad to be out of bed." She turned her eyes to Miz Bella, who had re-entered the room to make sure Camille was doing all right, and, after an uncertain pause, dropped a little curtsy. "Good morning, ma'am," she said. "I've come to attend the school, and to help you fix everything up. Mr Headstrong will be coming soon to help, as well. Oh, and my name is Marigold."

Miz Bella's smile was warm and inviting. "Good morning, Marigold," she replied. "It's good of you to come help us."

Perhaps she would have said more, but Marigold interrupted, more confident before as result of the kind words. "Yes, isn't it good of me?" she said, beaming. "I'm so excited about the school. I know a little bit of my letters, because my papa taught me. But I want to learn more. It takes me a long time to spell out words, and I once saw a hobbit who could read it just like it was all coming out of his head, he was going so fast and easy!" Her eyes widened at the memory, and she nodded firmly. "I want to be able to read like that."

[Undómë]

I wonder what customs strengthen them?

A fit of coughing assailed him as the smoke from his pipe crept down his throat too deeply. The discussion of the men at the next table had intrigued him and at the same time made him feel quite rustic. Various thoughts assailed him and he’d quite forgotten he was puffing on his pipe. Eyes watering from the cloud of smoke he’d coughed out, he gulped a little of his cooled tea to ease the raw feeling in his chest, and laid his pipe aside for the moment.

Hob waved away one of the servers who’d come up, a look of concern on her face. ‘Down the wrong pipe,’ he rasped out at her. ‘That’s all. No need for concern.’ Nonetheless, she poured him a bit more hot tea and left a wedge of lemon, saying the lemon would easy the throat.

Customs? The word still echoed in his mind.

He thought of the folk on Girdley Island; his family, his neighbors. Ordinary folk, he thought. Kind folk and brave as needed, he nodded, thinking on how Rowan Chubb’s goat had got stuck on one of the outlaying feet of the island when the river rose and old Taffy had gone out in his ramshackle boat, his sons holding on to the line he’d tied to it and nearly got himself drowned getting Rowan’s nanny back to her.

Generous, too he added recalling how those around old Gammer Rushybanks place helped the old girl plant her garden and harvest it and put it up. And how Gammer always made sure that those whose gardens hadn’t quite seen them through the wet winter had a few jars of her soups to get them through a day or so.

Thrifty . . . he smiled at the much laughed at but fond tradition of the Spring Faire Fisherman’s Cup and the Pie-makers’ Pie Pan. One of the Big Folk from Bree, a merchant who stayed at the Inn when he passed through, was so enamoured of the Cook’s eel pie and fish chowder that on one of his trips through he had presented her with a gift. A large, gaudy tureen in river blue with fish in bright and unusual colors swimming all over it and a pie pan from the same maker with fat eels swimming about its exterior. They had quickly become mathoms and were given to the Faire committee who put them to good use. Hob chuckled, remembering his turn with the tureen sitting on the hearth. His wife had laughed at him as he placed it proudly there, and said, ‘Thank the stars we’ve only to look at it for a year!’

Merry folk and most without a mean bone in their bodies. Little victories were celebrated with food and drink and a shared pouch of pipewood. Many of them at The Cottonwood Inn he remembered fondly. A good day of fishing; the first of the spring onions coming up heralding a healthy garden crop for the year; Gaffer Reedly’s ewe giving birth to healthy twins.

There were many other customs he could name he thought. None so lofty as those of the Big Folk. But good and sturdy ones, nonetheless, that had and would see them through. Yes, he and his folk were rooted in custom, their toes dug deep in its nurturing soil.

With a laugh aloud, he turned toward the table where Benat and Anyopâ sat finishing the last of their breakfast. ‘Begging your pardon, sirs,’ he said, drawing their attention. ‘I couldn’t help but hear your conversation.’ He introduced himself, saying he had sat at their table last night while Master Benat worked up to his story. ‘We Hobbits do have customs . . . though small ones and quite ordinary seen in the light of yours, I’m sure.’ He held out his pouch of Longbottom Leaf. ‘And here’s a fine example of one,’ he said grinning. ‘If you gentlemen are done with your meals, there’s nothing like the Shire’s finest to round out the satisfaction.’

[Tevildo]

After warmly greeting Marigold and lauding her determination to learn to read, Miz Bella excused herself and returned to her desk in the adjoining chamber in order to put the finishing touches on the first day's lessons. She left Camille and Marigold with instructions to continue setting up the classroom and the books from Mayor Samwise. She was pleased to note that Ginger, one of the servers at the Inn, had come in to help them.

As the door between the chambers closed, Camille beckoned to Marigold with an inviting hand, "Come here and see what Ginger and I are doing." There were a great many piles of books strewn all over the floor in one corner of the room. Ginger was studiously working but gave a brief nod of welcome to Marigold. The books seemed to be sorted according to size, height, and color. Ginger would separate the volumes into piles and have Camille set them neatly on the shelves.

Turning to Marigold, Camille explained, "Miz Bella asked me to put the books in order. She had said we might do it by title. But Ginger thought of a much better scheme: to arrange the books by size and height. She's so smart. And I had another idea, too. I suggested we sort the piles by color. Very pretty, don't you think? I did try it by title but the big and little books were all mixed up in a jumble. I'm sure Miz Bella will like this better." Camille did not bother mentioning that she had only succeeded in alphabetizing three of the volumes, which were at the very beginning of the alphabet.

The young hobbit lass pointed triumphantly to a long shelf on the wall where there were a series of red books all in a row: fat ones on one end, skinny ones on the other, and the very tallest in the middle. A few picture books sat on the lower shelf. Camille beamed proudly at her handiwork, observing, "I've seen Cook store her bowls in the kitchen just like this: big ones in one cupboard, another for smaller ones, and the third for those that are middle-sized. So it should work well with books. I hope Miz Bella will be pleased."

With that, the young hobbit set back to work, mentioning to Marigold, "If you'd like, you can help us to sort the rest...."

[Amanaduial the archer]

The Previous Night - Revelations from Reminisces...

"Tar-Corondir has noticed a ressemblance between you and his late wife, he believes you may be his lost son's child. ... There is a connection between you I deem ... I know little of your history but is it possible that it is true - or is it only that his wish sees a likeness ?"

Aman’s mouth dropped open as she looked, openly stunned, at Mithalwen. The elf’s grey eyes remained steadily on her own, and the Innkeeper realised with a shock that there was no jest in the woman’s expression – none at all. She seemed quite as solemn as the grave. Looking across at Snaveling, Aman searched his face, her forehead creasing and her eyes questioning. “Snaveling, what..” she murmured softly. But the man did not hold her gaze for more than a second before he dropped his eyes away from hers, taking a gulp of ale from his glass. Aman gave a snort of laughter, as if testing, as if trying to see the amusement in what must obviously have been a joke – for what sort of claim was it for a man to make on a woman he barely knew anything of?

As if he had expected the gesture, Snaveling looked away, his eyes bitter as he closed his mouth resolutely; as if he had expected her to scoff and sneer, yet was still hurt at her doing so. Looking closely at his face, Aman saw disappointment in his features. Confused, she looked back to Mithalwen, but the elf remained unchanging, compassion and solemnity showing on her fair, serious face – the face of a mother revealing some terrible truth to her child.

I am no child of yours, elf. And my business is none of yours.

Aman’s expression changed subtly and she pursed her lips together. The elf seemed to start slightly, as if she had heard Aman’s very thoughts (and maybe she had, Aman thought, for did not elves possess the gift of Osanwe? But only one elf had the permission to do so, and that was Pio – a half elf now far, far away from this Inn…), but her hand remained over Aman’s, tightening slightly as if she was trying to comfort her. Coldly but deliberately and wordlessly, the Innkeeper slowly removed her hand from beneath Mithalwen’s, settling it on her lap without a word. Mithalwen started forward, looking shaken as if Aman had outwardly flared in her anger. “Aman, please, Tar-Corondir did not-”

“Let him speak for himself if it is so important,” Aman replied icily. Looking across at Snaveling, she crossed her arms and took a deep breath and tried not to show her anger. “Well, Master Snaveling? What is it you have to say exactly? Let me hear the words from your own lips – for of all the scandal and confusion and hurt and lies that you have brought into this Inn, this….” She trailed away, the lamplight glittering off her brilliant green eyes. Her words at last seemed to motivate Snaveling into action: moving as if just awaking from an age-long slumber, the man frowned and shook his head slowly. “Lies?” he replied, quietly, incredulously. “I have never lied to you, Aman. And I am not lying now, I promise you that.”

Aman felt a lump rise in her throat as if she was about to start crying and, to her shame, felt tears well up in her eyes. Looking away from Snaveling, she took another deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to find the words to reply before she simply shook her head and got up from the table, walking calmly and wordlessly away. Ignoring Mithalwen’s words as she called after the Innkeeper, Aman strode briskly across the Common Room – and walked out of the door. Making her way across the courtyard, the Innkeeper did not see the newcomer to the Inn make his musical entrance to the Common Room, simply going to the stables and wrenching the door open. With every step that she took, the urgency of her movements seemed to increase, as if the need to get away grew stronger by the second. Half running down the central aisle of the stables, Aman’s fingers stumbled for the first time in years on the catch of a stable door. Getting a grip of the lock, she flung open ‘Falmar’s door and stepped inside, pulling the stables from the door and turning abruptly towards her horse. The mare looked at her curiously, shifting her feet uneasily on the stone floor; Falmar had been elven trained by Piosenniel, the half elf by whom she had been given to Aman as a gift, and maybe this was what had made her so finely attuned to her mistress’s feelings. From the next stable, Felarof whinnied softly, rubbing she side of his huge, beautiful black head on the side of the stable doorway as he looked inquisitively at Aman, disquieted by her anger and unease. The Rohirrim woman glared at the young stallion and even he, last of the mearas, the finest horse on this side of middle earth, backed away from the anger that radiated from her gaze.

Flinging the saddle onto Falmar’s back, Aman started doing the straps up under the horse’s belly, regardless of her steed’s unease. “I’ll be taking you out for a ride instead of him, my dear,” she muttered angrily, only half talking to the horse. “Why, how could I ride Felarof when…when he was merely a gift from…from…” She pursed her lips together tightly, and tugged at the last strap vehemently to check that it was correctly tightened. Her actions were by now clumsy and rushed and as she unbolted the stable door again, she tried to lead Falmar just as hurriedly out of it. The mare did not budge, glaring resolutely at Aman as she dug her hooves into the straw. Aman angrily tried again, desperation now setting in as she muttered to the horse. “Falmar, come – come on, let’s go; we need to…” she stopped, trailing off as she realised what she could only have finished that sentence with.

She was running away.

Loosening her grip on the horse’s lead rein, she released her fingers. Looking up wearily at Falmar, she brought her hand slowly up to the mare’s cheek, and she did not shy away, allowing the Rohirrim woman to stroke her gently. An apology. Stepping forward, Aman buried her face in the horse’s mane, sighing deeply, no longer wanting to cry, merely to work this whole situation out. For in the back of her mind, other thoughts had been nagging all the while behind her anger.

Why had she reacted as she had? If the thought was so preposterous, why had she not simply laughed in Snaveling’s face? Why, instead, had it affected her so deeply?

Of course it is preposterous. If affects me because…well, because it is Snaveling. He will always affect me… Aman’s lip twisted bitterly but Falmar’s whinny and gently nudge caused her to realise her sudden stiffening, and she tried to relax once more. No, that couldn’t just be it – would she have reacted as vehemently to anyone else if they had made such a claim?

The simple fact was that Aman now could not be sure.

The Innkeeper came, as was well known, from Rohan, the land of the horse-lords, and her father had been one of them: a Rohirrim lord, respected and well-liked by those he knew and fair to those who served under him, as his father had been before him. Aman had never met her grandfather, or in fact any of her grandparents, but her father had told her that her grandmother – his mother – had passed away many years before her birth, dying in childbirth with him. But although her grandmother had paid with her lifeblood for her father’s life, she was well rewarded in her son’s good looks; for it must have been she who Aman’s father took after, there being remarkably little resemblance between him and his father – quite different from Aman, who took strongly after her father with her darker hair and fine bone structure, a contrast to her mother’s typically Rohirrim blonde hair, although she took after her mother with her sparkling green eyes.

Not that she could remember him well: her father had passed away twelve years ago, when Aman herself was but a girl. He had died fighting for King Elessar, falling at the gates of Minas Tirith – a noble and good death, if such a thing exists. She had not often been at home for the years before the War of the Ring, however, having started an apprenticeship as a horse-trainer when she was only fourteen. What with that and the fact that her father was often away on business, the relationship the couple had had been more distant over the last few years of his life, unlike when she was younger. Sighing with a mixture of regret and happiness for times past, Aman thought back to when she had been very young, when her father had taught her of the history of the people of middle earth.

“The oldest of the Mannish people of Middle Earth are the Dunedain, those who remain from the Numenorians,” he had begun one lesson. “They are like to other men in some aspects, but in others they are much different.” He had sat back, taking a sip of wine as he reclined in the thick armchair and looked down at his young daughter as he addressed her by his personal nickname. “Tell me, ‘Ana, why would the Dunedain or Numenorians be different from the Rohirrim?”

Aman screwed up her face, wrinkling her nose as she twisted her hands in her lap. “They…they live for longer!” she announced, suddenly remembering and beaming widely as she did so. Reaching up to the horseshoe necklace around her neck, she began to twist it uncertainly as she tried to gain time by continuing vaguely, “They live for years and years longer than us…”

“Aye, like your father apparently.” Aman’s mother’s voice interrupted their lesson and she entered the room with a tray of tea and toast which she put down on the rug in front of the young Aman. Looking across slyly at her husband, she feigned irritation as she tsked at him, hands on hips. “The Bold Untold will live forever and never seem a day older than he is now, ‘til I’m old and grey!” The Bold Untold: that had been her mother’s name for her father, although exactly why Aman had never found out – something to do with her father’s mysterious nature and his habit of engrossing himself in work for hours on end, so unlike the rest of the Rohirrim.

Her father laughed, reaching out to take his wife’s hand and kissing it tenderly, his dark eyes glittering darkly in the firelight although he kept a solemn expression on his always serious face. “’Til you’re old and grey, my sweet? Why, too late!”

His wife gasped in shock and took a pillow from the chair, clouting the man across the shoulder with it. His face breaking into a grin, Aman’s father threw back his head and laughed, grabbing her and pulling her across onto his lap, tickling her mischieviously as she yelled for him to stop, laughing all the while, her golden hair stark against his dark mane and complexion. As he stopped tickling her, the man started to sing softly, his voice low and deep as he began to little ditty, his smile growing. “One day to pastures of Rohan rode, a beautiful maid on the back of a mare, fair of face and spun of gold, the maid to the Rohirrim did declare –”

“Darned Rohirrim songster getting in my way…”

Aman almost jumped as she tensed and looked around to where Snaveling stood at the other end of the barn, spooked by how his words seemed to eerily follow her own thoughts. He looked surprised at her shock, taking a few steps forward as he added, “Got in my way when I was coming out of…of the Inn…” the man trailed off uneasily, halting in his speech and his steps. Looking anxiously at Aman, he regarded her wordlessly. Aman sniffed and turned back to Falmar.

“How long have you been watching me for, Snaveling?” she said quietly.

“Only since you started doing that…braiding thing with Falmar’s hair,” he replied without hesitation. “Although I can’t say I think she’ll suit plaits as well as you…” he grinned, then, unable to see Aman’s expression, he became more serious. “How are you, Aman?”

“That sounds like the start of a conversation, Master Snaveling,” she replied curtly. “I thought I established that I did not feel like conversing.”

Snaveling made a deliberating sound, seeming for once to be lost for words. “Hrm. Indeed. Well. I…” Aman smiled secretively to herself but did not turn around. Sighing deeply, she continued to fiddle with Falmar’s mane, her eyes fixed intently on the growing braid. “Snaveling…may I ask what prompted this most recent outburst of identity?” she asked, somewhat scathingly. Her voice softening, she added, “Why are you pulling me into this?”

The pause this time was much longer. “Because I believe it is true, Aman. I told you about my history but…but I did not tell you all of it.” The Numenorian hesitated again, and Aman heard him take another hesitant step forward. “Aman, please, I must as you one question – what…what was your father’s name?”

Aman frowned, closing her eyes. Once more the dark, laughing eyes and handsome face of her father danced into her mind’s eye, and she turned her head to look at Snaveling, her chin held high and a little pride in her voice. “My father, Snaveling? My father was the son of Lord Taraphir of Rohan, and his name…his name was Lord Arad of Rohan.”

[Saelind]

Retreating from the window and standing beside the bed on the far side of the room, Thalion was not surprised to see that Neviel had already dressed and left. He had slept longer than he intended; the lad was undoubtedly hungry as well as tired of being cooped up in a single chamber. Throwing on his own shirt and breeches, Thalion bent down to retrieve his boots. Then he checked to make sure his healer's kit was safely stored at the foot of the bed. Since he saw no need for a bow or dagger, he left these items inside the chamber, lying on top of the chest where blankets and pillows were stored.

Briskly striding out the door into the corridor, Thalion headed for the Common Room where he hoped breakfast was still being served, and he would find Neviel. He had no trouble finding the serving area, but was surprised and a bit alarmed that his son was nowhere in sight. Where had the boy gone off to? Neviel was a sensible Elf; it was not like him to disappear without a word to his father. Glancing around at all the tables to make sure he hadn't overlooked the boy, Thalion couldn't help but be surprised by the wide assortment of folk sitting in the Dragon and eating breakfast. The place seemed to be a hodgepodge of every race and people in Middle-earth: a preponderence of hobbits, but also Men of Gondor and Rohan, traders from Bree and Dale, as well as a sprinkling of Elves and even a dwarf or two. Thalion was especially surprised to notice how many Elves, both male and female, were apparently staying at the Inn or living in the neighborhood. There seemed to be more Elves here than he had seen since leaving Rivendell.

Questioning a pair of men at an adjoining table, Thalion discovered that a young Elf had come in about half an hour before and wolfed down a bowl of porridge but had then heard some hobbits discussing a new school in the neighborhood. Some of the hobbits were very much in favor of the school, while others argued against it, saying that there was no need to put nonsensical ideas into young empty heads. The Elf lad had listened intently, asked where the school would be meeting, and had then disappeared.

"And where exactly might this new school be?" Thalion echoed the words of the men.

But the two only shrugged their shoulders, noting that such matters did not concern them. Seeing Thalion's bewilderment, a hobbit lass serving the meals came over and spoke up, "I'm Ruby. Remember me from last night? Maybe I can help. The school will be on the first floor along the rear of the Inn. There's an outside door that overlooks the back courtyard and garden. You can enter from there, if you'd like." Ruby pointed him in the right direction. All thoughts of his own breakfast pushed aside and eager to track down Neviel, Thalion stood up and thanked her, trotting off in the direction that she had pointed, before Ruby could say anything else.

[Fairleaf]

Daisy and Reggie come to sign up and help out; Reggie puts a question to Neviel

Wilfrid Chubb pulled up his cart to the front porch of the Inn. ‘Whoa up, there, Larkspur!’ he called to the pony, pulling back on the reins. ‘Now, Mari,’ he said to his wife as she got down and helped the children off. ‘I’ll just wait to the side of the path while you get the two signed up. You find out about when we should pick them up. Remember, we got to move some of the ewes into the lambing barns; the late bloomers.’

Mari nodded at his request saying she’d be right back. She reached in beneath her seat and pulled out two little lidded pails and handed one each to Daisy and to Reggie. ‘Now you’ve both got an apple and some honeyed corn fritters if you get hungry. I’m sure Miz Bella will have some water for you to drink if you get thirsty.’ She brushed back Daisy’s curls with her hand and wiped a smudge off Reggie’s cheek. ‘Let’s go and find Miz Bella and get you settled in.’

Directions were gotten and the three Hobbits made their way to the classroom. Daisy and Reggie went into the classroom itself, while their mother went to Miz Bella's little office.

There were a number of Hobbits already milling about in the classroom. And to Daisy, it looked as if the order for the day was to get the classroom all put together. There were still a few books to be sorted and Daisy pitched in after asking one of the older girls what they were doing. She admired the shelf of red books saying they looked kind of like a little range of hills all lined up like they were with the tallest in the center.

Reggie was not quite so interested in the tidying up that was going on. Neatness had never been one of his stronger points. But over in one corner he had found a small box filled with pieces of nice fat chalk that just fit his chubby little fingers. No one was paying any attention as he squatted down and drew a good sized circle on the wooden floor. From his pocket he took a small worn leather, drawstring pouch. Inside it were his marbles. He looked about for someone who might want to play. The girls were all talking and sorting and putting stuff on shelves. But there just at the doorway peeking in was a boy . . . one of the Big Folk, and kind of skinny. He looked about the same age as his sister. Maybe he would want to play.

‘Hey, you want to play?’ the five year old asked, going over to where the boy stood. ‘My name is Reggie.’ He looked up hopefully at the boy. ‘I’ve got enough marbles. We could share.’

[Mithalwen]

Mithalwen had ordered a hearty breakfast by elf standards for she had not eaten the previous night what with one thing and another, but by the time the meal arrived she found she had lost her appetite. Back in the common room she could not avoid the memories of last night as she had when absorbed in her designs or during her morning ride..

Aman's anger was understandable, and she had expected it... but she did not expect it to have pained her so much. I must learn not to get involved, ever, with anyone, especially mortals, she thought. She had not seen either the inn-keeper or Snaveling since they had left the common room the previous evening and perhaps that was a good thing. The woman's ire had been impressive. She would get these braces made for the crippled child and leave as soon as possible. All her best efforts were misunderstood.

She ate her meal for it was paid for with her room, and it was substantial enough that she need not bear the expense of further meals that day, but the fare gave her no pleasure. The fresh, wholesome dishes might have been dry crusts for all the joy the elf took in them; her spirits had not been so low for a long time. Lost in her own thoughts she barely noticed the other customers.

As soon as she had finished she collected her tool bag and left the inn. The village smith, Toby Flaxman, had been helpful and courteous two mornings ago when she had taken her horse to be shod but she did not know how he would react now that she was asking for help.

[Arry]

Gil speaks with Miz Bella

Woody and Hanson make friends

Gil leaned casually against the door frame, his cap in his hands. His older sister Laura had sent him in early to the Inn to see about getting her two younger sons into the new school. Gil was groaning at the early hour and chiding himself for telling her about Miz Bella at all. ‘Never mind that you had a bit too much of the Dragon’s ale last night. Call it a bit of payment for letting you stay here, Gil Tussock, until your own place is done,’ Laura had had told him. ‘You can explain to Mister Banks what made you a bit late.’

Woodruff (or Woody as he was mostly called), eleven, and Hanson, five, were not as unenergetic as their uncle. They had promised him they would be good, but could they please, please go in and have a look around. ‘G’wan, then,’ he’d told them both, taking a quick look in at the schoolroom. ‘I’ll just wait here ‘til Miz Bella is done talking to that other woman; then, I’ll get the both of you signed up.’ As an afterthought, and because he thought he should do it since he was after all their uncle, Gil called after them as they ran into the room. ‘Woody and Hanson Boffin, you be good now.’

---

‘Hey, look, Woody!’ Hanson pointed to the back part of the room where someone had drawn a circle on the floor. There were two boys there, one a Hobbit who looked to be about Hanson’s age. And another, taller, boy. One of the Big Folk, he thought. The younger boy held a bag of marbles and had taken one out to show the other boy.

‘They’re gonna play marbles,’ Hanson said, tugging on his brother’s shirt. ‘Let’s see if we can join in.’

[littlemanpoet]

As Uien was walking around the side the Green Dragon, a stray thought came to her.

<I must learn not to get involved, ever, with anyone, especially mortals.>

Uien frowned, and tried to calm her mind, sensing the textures of relation running from Mithalwen to others. I really have no business probing her thought. She resolved to stop, but it was much harder to sever the link than not to begin them in the first place. So she sensed the braided and chafed linkage between Mithalwen and the man, Snaveling, and between Mithlawen and Aman. Uien's brow rose. Fair Aman? What trouble could be brewing there? Had not Snaveling had a sudden revelation? Uien shook her head. So much could be read, but very little could be learned from it. And most of it is none of your business.

When Uien entered the Common Room, she looked around to find that Mithalwen had already left. Uien wondered if she should go speak with Aman, but thought better of it, turned, and left the Inn in search of Mithalwen.

[Nurumaiel]

Marigold nodded and dropped to her knees next to Camille, and began to pick up the books one by one, sorting them as she had been instructed. Occasionally she would stop and study the title, and then open the book and turn the pages. She looked at the pictures, silently mouthed a few words, and then, with a shake of her head, closed the book and set it up on the shelf.

The door opened and Marigold looked up with a bright smile, expecting to see Falco Headstrong, but her smile fell not upon him, but upon a young hobbit lad with a little girl at his side. He appeared to be in his teens, and she about eleven or twelve. They were obviously of the same family, and looked so much alike that it was comical. Friendly but rather shy brown eyes; rather ruffled brown hair; skin a little browner than Marigold's own. The boy's hair was a little bit lighter than the girl's, and of course hers was longer, but it was the only real difference in their features.

Camille and Marigold stared at the boy and girl, and the boy and girl stared back, and then, after a few moments of silence, the boy tipped the cap that was on his head and said: "Good morning. Is this the new school?"

His manner was very courteous, but very 'manly' (though, of course, he was a hobbit). Camille and Marigold were perhaps too young to see it, but an older hobbit who was accustomed to children, such as Falco Headstrong, would have made a reasonable guess that this young boy had been instructed in manners by a good father who upheld the practice of gallant behaviour to the ladies. This boy had none of the feminine touches in his manner that might have been a result of a ladylike mother's instructions.

"Yes," said Marigold, getting up from her knees. "Miz Bella is over in that room, if you want to go talk to her. But, if you like, you could just stay here and help us, and talk to her when she comes out again."

"Let's do that," said the little girl quickly, and looking urgently up at her brother.

"Very well!" he said, with a laugh. "But you needn't be so very frightened... Miz Bella is going to teach you, not eat you."

"Do you know any of your letters?" Camille asked.

"No," he replied. "That's why my sister is so afraid of Miz Bella. We don't know anything about learning, and we're not quite sure what to expect. I don't even know how to spell my own name. And, of names, mine is Haltred Hedgeworth, and this is my sister Estella."

"Marigold Baker is my name, and this is Camille," said Marigold, giving a little courtesy. "And we can't forget to mention Ginger, who works here." She wondered if it was relevant to mention in the introductions that one of those boys Mr. Headstrong was always hanging about with was really very fond of Ginger, and decided against it. They had work to do. She gestured to the pile of books. "We're organising these books by size," she said. "Come and help us."

With shyness, but pleasure at being invited, Haltred and Estella Hedgeworth joined the little group.

[Saelind]

Neviel glanced uneasily at Reggie who had asked him to play as well as Woody and Hanson who had wandered over with the obvious intention of being let in on the fun. The Elf picked up one of the marbles that Reggie had taken out of his small leather pouch and examined it more closely. He had seen mannish boys playing marbles in Rivendell, but only from a distance. The shape and appearance of the little balls intrigued him. Some were a simple brown or gray, evidently made from smooth clay. A few of Reggie's were true beauties fashioned of glass and sparkling with color. It was these that caught Neviel's eye. Tentatively, as if handling a very special treasure, he fingered the smooth texture of one of the glass balls.

"Oh, how lovely!" the young Elf noted with approval. "Such bright colors all swirled together!" Neviel glanced down nervously at the circle that had been drawn on the ground and gazed over at the hobbit who had first addressed him. "I'd love to play marbles with you. But I have no idea what to do. My father and I have been on the road, and I don't get to do such things." What he did not mention was that with so few Elven children about, having a playmate was a rare treat. "Sorry, Reggie, I've never played marbles. But if you can show me I'll try to learn."

Neviel shifted uneasily from one foot to the other wondering what the hobbit lad would say. Bending down to get a closer look at the circle that had been chalked on the floor, the young Elf thought he saw the two brothers dart a surprised look between them.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling woke to the sound of the Blasted Bard’s full-throated singing. He stifled the curse that came to his lips as he remembered that his bed was at the courtesy of the Rohirric man, but this only befouled his mood further. He had lain awake far into the night, well into the morning, really, turning over and over in his mind the words that had passed between he and Aman – his grand-daughter. He was as yet unsure of how she would take to the idea of their being related…he was not sure of that himself yet either. But that he was indeed her grandsire was becoming eminently clear to both of them. The name and description of her father so closely matched that of his own son, as they had been reported to Snaveling, that there was little room for doubt. They had talked for some time, comparing what each knew about Arad and bit by bit they had pieced together a total picture of the man -- a picture in which the pieces fit together so well and so easily, that there was little room left for doubt. Beyond that, though, was the very rightness of the relationship: Snaveling had long known, deep in his bones, that he and Aman were connected by more than friendship, and that their relationship could never be the romantic one imagined by the girl. This certainty, this knowing sense, was certainly a part of his Numenorean heritage – he came to that and to full wakefulness with a start. That heritage was also Aman’s, he realised. It had not even occurred to him that in revealing the truth of her parentage, he was perhaps staining her with his own dark past. How would she feel about being descended of the Black Numenoreans? He was sure that she would want to keep that interesting piece of information to herself, and he thanked those who dwelt in the West that as yet none knew the truth but he, Aman and Mithalwen.

But then Hearpwine’s song re-emerged, louder this time and even more insistent. The foolish man was twanging away on his harp and singing at full volume out the window of the Inn.

You take the high road,
And I’ll take the low road,
And I’ll be in Gondor, before you!
Me and my true love, will ever meet again,
On the bonny bonny banks of the Snowbourne!

He laughed and turned to see Snaveling awake. “An old tune, and a happy one to begin the day with!” he cried.

“I know it,” Snaveling mumbled as he got out of bed. “But I thought it went, ‘Me and my true love will never meet again.’”

“Pah!” the bard said good-naturedly. “A sad song is not fitting for the morning. I have changed the words to suit my mood.”

“Are you always this…” Snaveling searched for a word, “boisterous in the morning?”

“Aha! You are angry that I woke you up. But the sun is well in the sky and the people of the Inn are about. School children have come, strangely enough, and even they are at work. It is time to get up even though you may have been tossing from pillar to post this long night.”

“How did…?” But Snaveling’s question was cut off with another laugh from the younger man. “You were not so quiet as you supposed,” Hearpwine explained, “nor so circumspect. Do you know that you talk to yourself when you are in distress? Have no fear, my friend, for I shall not reveal your secrets to any – particularly not to the pretty Innkeeper of the Green Dragon!” With that he clapped his arm around Snaveling’s shoulders and led him from their room leaving Snaveling with no chance to respond. As the night before when they had met, Hearpwine’s loud and happy manner, and high spirits, oppressed the more dour Snaveling, but the bard had been so good as to offer Snaveling his room’s other bed when he had seen that Snaveling had nowhere to sleep. After his conversation with Aman the night before, she had seemed to desire the company of her horses more than his, so Snaveling had left the stables to her and returned to the Inn hoping that he would be allowed to sleep one a bench in the Common Room. Cook had seen him settling in, however, and put paid to that idea, and it had only been the quick intervention of Hearpwine that had saved Snaveling from a night in the bushes.

They ate breakfast together. As Hearpwine talked of his journey and of Rohan and (somewhat oddly for a man of Rohan) of Ithilien, occasionally breaking into song, Snaveling looked about for either Aman or Mithalwen but could see neither. At the conclusion of their meal they sat, neither of them certain what to do, when into the Common Room there came a very small hobbit lass, asking the way to the new school. One of the barmaids pointed the lass in the right direction. As she left Hearpwine stood and said, “A schoolroom! Wonderful! I am sure that the students there would be interested in hearing songs of other lands, or even a lay or two about the War. And who knows, perhaps some of them know songs of this land that I might learn.”

Snaveling doubted that there was little more on Hearpwine’s mind than the prospect of performing for an audience, albeit one composed almost entirely of children, but he said nothing for he wished to be left to himself. “You go ahead,” he said. “I have matters of my own to attend to.”

Hearpwine smiled knowingly. “Very well, my friend. I shall see to the children while you go in search of your ‘matters’ – be sure to tell her when you see her that I have a special song or two about the fair maids of Rohan that I’m sure she would like to hear!” And with another laugh he left the Common Room, already humming the tune he intended to sing for the educational benefit of the schoolchildren. Snaveling went in search of Aman.

[Arry]

Introductions are made; the game begins

‘On the road a lot,’ murmured Hanson. ‘Phooey! Everybody gets to go somewhere ‘cept me!’

‘Don’t start up,’ hissed Woody to his younger brother. ‘Our Da isn’t the traveling sort and never will be.’

Hanson giggled despite his brother’s stern look and whispered. ‘Does know the road to the Dragon, same as Uncle Gil!’

Hanson had big dreams of traveling about one day as had Mister Bilbo. His Gammer Boffin had told him tales of the odd Hobbit, as she called him, though with affection, which fueled his imagination and his longing. Much to his disappointment no one in his family ever went anywhere exciting nor did they wish to. His Uncle Gil, however, had been as far as the western bounds and to Buckland. He and his mates liked to visit the little Inns and trade music for drinks. But Hanson wanted to see what lay beyond the Shire someday.

And here was a boy who had done such!

‘Pardon me,’ he said moving up to stand near Neviel. ‘My name is Hanson. Hanson Boffin.’ He gave the tall fellow a grin as Neviel gave his name to Hanson in return. ‘Me and my brother there, Woody, live here in Bywater.’ He crooked a thumb at Woody who’d hung back a bit. ‘We’d like to shoot marbles with you two.’ Hanson hauled out his sack of marbles from his breeches pocket. ‘It’s not too hard . . .’

‘And you’re lucky!’ broke in Woody, less shy now that Hanson had made the introductions. ‘Since you’re a first-timer you get to shoot a little closer in than us others.’ Woody pulled out his marble pouch, too. ‘Here, hold out your hands. You can borrow some of mine to play.’ He poured a half dozen marbles into Neviel’s hands and gave him one just a little larger. A ‘shooter’ he called it of multi-colored glass in greens.

‘Come on! Kneel down here like this,’ prompted Hanson. ‘And roll a couple of your marbles into the circle. Make sure you remember which ones are yours now,’ he continued rolling three of his into the confines of the chalked circle.

Woody and Reggie had done the same. ‘G’wan, Reggie,’ said Woody, who had managed to introduce himself and his brother to the other Hobbit lad. ‘You start the game and show him how to shoot.’

[Fairleaf]

Reggie got down next to Neviel and showed him how to rest his shooter-marble on his index finger and give it a shove with his thumb. Neviel, he said, and the other boys agreed, could shoot very near the edge of the circle since this was his first time. Hanson and Reggie would shoot from a little further out because they were ‘sperienced’ players. And Woody would have to take the furthest out because he was pretty sharp at this game. ‘See how big his pouch of marbles is?’ said Reggie. ‘That’s ‘cause he won ‘em off other players.’

‘Now you try to shoot at the other fellows’ marbles and push them out of the ring. You get to keep those marbles, then. The tricky part is, you have to try to get your shooter out of the ring, too. Or else it’s fair game for others to shoot at.’ Reggie hunched down with his knuckle placed firmly on the floor and took aim. ‘And oh,’ he said before making his shot, ‘no calling “knuckles” in this game.’ He turned to Neviel. ‘That’s where you can put your shooting knuckle on top of one or more of your other hand’s knuckles to lift it up.’ Reggie shook his head. ‘It’s really not a very fair way to play.’

He hunched down a bit and made a good shot at one of Hanson’s marbles. The clear little ball rolled near the edge of the circle, but did not go out. Reggie’s shooter inched its way slowly to the edge of the circle and barely cleared it. ‘Shoot! That was a close one!’ he said snatching up his shooter.

‘Go ahead, Neviel,’ he said scooting back from the ring. ‘Take a couple of practice shots. And oh, you can move wherever you like around the ring to do them.’

[Firefoot]

Willy Burrows was not so happy this time around at approaching the Green Dragon as he had been that day of the party. This time, his Ma had dragged him here upon hearing about the new school and was even now holding the door impatiently for him to enter. Reading, 'riting, and 'rithmatic. Don't need to know those. He knew naught of the Elven lore and and history the sign had promised, else he may have been more excited.

"I say, Willy, you go everywhere else fast enough. Hurry up; you're going to be late," his Ma said, ushering him through the door. Willy wished his brother Nick might have had to go along as well, but Ma said he was too young. Willy thought he knew the real reason, though: Ma just wanted to keep him out of trouble, but Nick never made trouble unprovoked.

"Look, that seems to be the classroom. Why don't you head in there while I go talk to Miz Bella about getting you signed up." It wasn't a suggestion; it was an order. Willy dragged his feet some more to get there, and glanced around to see if his Ma was watching. Shoot. She was; she knew him too well. So much for making a break for it.

So he stepped into the room and looked around. He wasn't late, that was for sure. First he saw the lasses organizing the books on the bookshelf. Willy wrinkled his nose. Great, a bunch of girls. Then he saw the lads at the back of the room and his face lit up. Marbles! He liked marbles, and was quite a fair hand at it. And... was that an Elf? It was! The other lads seemed to be pretty nonchalant about it, though, so Willy decided not to say anything about it. He went over to the other lads, walking faster than he had all day, and realized with delight that they were just starting.

"Hi... I'm Willy," he said. He fished around in his pocket for his marble bag - currently about half full. "Mind if I join in?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine hummed a tune to himself as he went off in search of the school room, running over in his mind the odd character he had befriended the night before. Snaveling was an odd name for a man such as him – a man in whose veins there clearly flowed the blood of Numenor. The bard had spent too long a time in Ithilien with the lord Faramir not to recognize the sight and feel of the far off air of the vanished land. There was something else about Snaveling that was familiar, something in him that he had seen before, but exactly what it was he could not remember. He suddenly realized that the tune he was humming had been brought to mind by the dark man of the South. It was odd indeed, for the song he had running through his mind was the last he would think to associate with this dour stranger…

His meditations were abruptly cut off by his arrival at the schoolroom. Children’s voices came to him through the windows and he smiled at it, for it had been a long time since he had last heard such sounds. He paused for a moment, debating whether or not to talk, but the door came open of its own accord as a young hobbit lad flew out of it in pursuit of a small glass marble. Hearpwine stopped it with his foot and retrieved it. He stood up again, towering over the lad, for he was a tall Man of Rohan, over six feet in height, while the Halfling boy was but an inch or two past one foot himself. Hearpwine smiled down at the boy and was pleased to see that he was not afraid. “Thank you sir,” the boy said. “I was afraid as I’d lose that!” Hearpwine had to kneel all the way down to return the marble, and the boy immediately rushed back into the room. Hearpwine followed him in.

He looked about for the teacher but could not see anyone obviously in charge. He suddenly realized how hard it might be to identify the hobbit adult from the children, for they all looked so alike to him. There were some lasses hard at work arranging books upon a shelf so he directed himself toward them. They paused in their motions as he approached and looked up at him. “Good morning,” he said in his pleasantest tones. “Do any of you know where your teacher is?”

[Child of the 7th Age]

A cluster of adult hobbits crowded into Miz Bella's office, all of them kinfolk of the young ones who were planning on attending school. Miz Bella had extended a warm welcome to Mari and to Woody and Hanson's Uncle Gil. Then she explained about the school and how the families could pay their fees in kind: a chicken or basket of eggs, or perhaps the provision of some needed service. Willy's mother Miz Burrows had been the last to arrive. After talking about her son, Miz Bella had the definite feeling that, unlike several of the other lads and lasses, Willy Burrows had certain misgivings about attending school and learning to read.

Miz Bella couldn't help smiling. She had taught her fair share of little ones over the years. They had not been hobbits but sons and daughters of the big folk, both those in the New Lands and in every corner of Middle-earth where she had travelled. But children were children; she didn't expect to find things too different in a hobbit classroom than she had found them in the villages and households of the big folk. She would need to keep a firm but kindly eye on Willy to make sure that he did not act up and try to interest him in the material she was teaching. Perhaps Willy and Camille could be paired together since both seemed hesitent about their studies. Possibly, they could help and encourage each other. It all depended if Willy could mind his manners or had his heart set on being disruptive in class. She would proobably find that out very quickly.

After Miz Bella tied up all the practical details of who would pay what and when, she spoke a little about what they would be doing in the class. "I know you need the lads and lasses to help out at home as well, so we'll meet in the morning and finish off about two hours after lunch. That should give them plenty of time to get home and do their chores. I'll understand if you ever want them to stay home to help in the fields or gardens, especially during the harvest; just try to tell me in advance so I can send work home. Today, because it's the first day of school, we have a special treat. Cook has promised cornbread and soup at lunchtime, and some fine sugar cookies. Normally, though, you'll want to send a lunch pail or make your own arrangements with Cook to send up a meal from the kitchen, which I'll be doing for myself. We can also get water from the pump out back."

"As far as the work goes, we'll start with some basic things: numbers and letters and short words plus a few stories about dragons or Elves or perhaps some discussion of the places I've been over the years. That should whet their appetite." By starting off simply, I can get a good idea of what each child knows and can tailor things accordingly. The class will have recess every morning, and I hope to have each child choose a special project." Miz Bella actually had a few projects in mind, one involving the side garden, the other the horse barn, and the third making recipes in the kitchen. She wondered if she could persuade Cook to lend her kitchen space, perhaps one day near the end of school after the lunch guests had left when things had slackened off .

"One other thing," she added. "Each of your little ones will be given a slate and chalk to take home. Please try to keep these in good shape. The children are welcome to practice what they learned. And for those who can already read, Master Samwise has graciously sent over some books that the children can borrow. "

"Now, do you have questions about anything? How we'll arrange payment or what the children will be learning? Otherwise, you're welcome to go about your business, and come back and collect the young 'uns in the mid-afternoon."

[Primrose Bolger]

Hearpwine is given directions

‘Good morning,’ the very tall man said in a pleasant tone. ‘Do any of you know where your teacher is?’

Ginger looked up to see Hearpwine towering over them like some straw-headed giant. She took a step back so that she would not have a view up the fellow’s nose and gave him a smile back. The other girls had moved back in chorus with her and stood close behind her.

‘Well, sir,’ Ginger began, handing off the tall, thin, green book to Daisy. ‘Miz Bella is right through there, in her office.’ She pointed toward the door into the side room. ‘She’s seeing to the parents who want their children at her school. Going over the schedule and such with them.’ She glanced about the schoolroom, not seeing a chair she thought would accommodate the man. ‘You’re more than welcome to stand here and wait for her to get done. Shouldn’t take long.’

From outside the door, Ginger heard Buttercup calling her. She turned round to say good-bye to Daisy and Camille. ‘Got to run and get those dishes done up now that breakfast is done.’ She gave them each a hug. ‘I’ll come back a little later and try to get in on the lesson going on. You two pay close attention and let me know what Miz Bella is teaching first. Catch me up, alright?’

She ran quickly out the door toward the kitchen.

[Arry]

Gil pulled his cap from his belt and settled it back on his head as he walked through the classroom and back into the common room proper. Woody and Hanson had been seen to, and he’d made the offer of him and his mates doing some cabinetry work or fix-up jobs as needed for Miz Bella in exchange for her taking on his nephews. Resources were stretched a little thin at his sister’s house, though he bet that Gammer Boffin would send along a jar or two of her plum conserve or gooseberry jam as she could spare it.

He stopped briefly to let the boys know when he’d come back to fetch them. To their amusement, he admonished them once again to be good. They fidgeted under his instruction, eager to get back to their game of marbles. A look of surprise passed over his features as he looked about at their fellow gamers. There was an Elf child with them! He bent down down and whispered to them, ‘Who is your Elven friend?’ The boys looked up confused. He nodded toward Neviel.

‘He’s our new friend, Neviel’ piped up Hanson. ‘We’re teaching him marbles.’

Gil said goodbye once again and hurried out. His eye caught cloaks and pails and whatever else the children had brough, piled all higgledy-piggledy in a corner. ‘Tell Miz Bella the lads and I will come round when classes are over and put up some pegs for cloaks and bags.’ He surveyed the room once more. ‘And we’ll throw up some cubbyhole shelves to put your pails and marble bags in, and whatever else you have in those pockets of yours that you don’t need while you’re learning.’ He grinned down at them, as they looked innocently up at him, their hands in their pockets, fingering the slings and rocks or pea shooters and little pebbles that were thrust in there.

Woody and Hanson gave a relieved sigh as he left. It was hard to put one over on Uncle Gil . They returned to their game. It was Woody's turn to shoot. Hanson stood near Neviel and reaching up his little hand, tugged at the boy's sleeve. 'Say, are you really an Elf?' he asked, trying to accomodate such a novel idea.

[Noinkling]

The men had a pleasant smoke and agreed to meet later at supper. Hob and Anyopâ were eager to hear about the battle at last, but there were tasks to be done before they could take their leisure. Hob was soon bidding them a good-day as he was off to the market place to see merchants about taking on his wares.

Benat bid a good-day then to Anyopâ, saying he was going to finish up some wood chopping and stacking for Cook, along with Envinyatar. Later, he would be going to see the mayor, Master Samwise, to inquire about a mutual friend. He was just putting on his cloak when the thought struck him that perhaps Anyopâ might enjoy coming with him.

‘What say you,’ he asked the man, calling Cullen to come along. ‘Would you care to meet Master Samwise with me? It should prove interesting?’

Cullen trotted toward the door and whined. He was eager to be out and about.

[Fairleaf]

Mari hurried out to the wagon where Wilfrid sat waiting. ‘They’re all taken care of, dear,’ she said as he gave her a hand up to the seat. She adjusted her thick wool shawl about her and smiled fondly at him. ‘I told Miz Bella we would bring her a pair of little banty laying hens and a rooster. And I spoke with Gil Tussock, asking if he could make her a little coop outside the classroom. We have some of that wire mesh fencing to put up for a little pen I said he could use.’

Wilfrid flicked the reins lightly against Larkspur’s flanks and urged the pony forward. ‘Best get to the lambing pens now, Mari. I’m worried about that black ewe.’ He rubbed his jaw as he thought on it.

‘Well, if she still hasn’t dropped, Wilfrid, by the time the children need to be picked up, old Larkspur and I can come to the Inn and fetch them.’

‘You’re a right treasure,’ he said, giving a relieved sigh, and looking at her with a fond grin. He flicked the reins once again and clucked to the pony to pick up her pace.

[Huan]

It was only after a second thought that Anyopâ took Benat up on his offer. There was only so much one could do in an Inn, and he did not relish the idea of spending a day inside. The view from the window in his room when he’d first gotten up was that of a cloudless day in the making. It would be good, he thought, to stretch his muscles with a bit of hard work.

‘Go on over to . . . the cottage, is it? I’ll just change into some clothes more suitable for hard work and join you there.’ Anyopâ rose from the table and headed for the staircase.

‘And we’ll see you later, won’t we?’ he called out to Hob, who was heading to the door just after Benat. ‘Good luck on selling your wares!’

[Undómë]

Hob nodded at Anyopâ, then hurried out the door after Benat. He made his way to the stable and checked all his merchandise in the wagon stored under the stable’s eaves. One of the stable hands helped him pull the wagon into the open and brought Strawberry out of her stall. Hob noted she’d been well groomed and gave the lad an extra penny for the effort. The pony was hitched to the wagon and the two moved down the lane toward The Great Road.

With any luck, Hob thought, he’d have most of his business done by mid-afternoon. He’d be back in plenty of time to have a late lunch and relax before supper.

[littlemanpoet]

Falowik sat at the trunk of an aged tree by the road, just outside the Green Dragon. Morning was getting on toward noon, and Uien had not been back yet. The tree he sat by was the one he had sat beneath those months and months ago, the day he had first met Uien. He thought back fondly to that night and the following days. She had changed him. He had been a cold hearted exile from Bree, wandering the roofless wild just north of the Shire, from the Blue Mountains to the Trollshaws. For twelve years he had roamed and lived off the land, until he had chanced upon the capture of the man of Rohan named Eodwine, and reported it to folk in the Shire, the closest habitations to where the crime had been committed. It had been a strange adventure, and Uien had chosen to be a part of it with him, rescuing Eodwine from the villains.

Falowik's necklace lay warm and bright against his chest: Uien was thinking of him. He looked up to see her walking toward him from beyond the Inn. He stood.

"What news?" he asked.

"I found Mithalwen busy at work with the smith of Bywater, one Toby Flaxman. She is making braces for Rory, the lad with the weak legs."

Despite her simple report, Uien's face gave away her disquiet. "What is wrong, fair one?"

She came a step closer. "Maybe-" She was looking at her hands, aimlessly working the folds of her skirt. She looked up at his eyes. "Maybe I have no business poking my nose in the business of Rory."

"Why not? Did not Mithalwen invite your aid?"

"Aye, but she does not need my aid. All she needed was help with Master Falco Headstrong, and so I spoke with him, and all was well enough thereafter." Her hands worked frettingly with her skirt, her eyes downcast again.

Falowik took her hands in his and stilled them. She looked up into his eyes again. "What more would you do if you felt it was good to do?"

She looked away, frowning. "Only to make the braces supple enough to grow with his legs as they change."

"That is a great thing!"

She shook her head vigorously. "But unneeded! Mithalwen is making the braces adjustable; they will be enough without my aid."

"Fair enough," Falowik said, "but something lies deeper than that. Does it not?"

Her eyes were large and haunted, looking back at him. Falowik wished that he knew what lay on her heart, but he did not feel that he could force it from her. She must speak what she could when she was ready to.

"I - I do not know. I know not what is wrong with me!" She broke from him and grabbing her skirt, fled across the courtyard to the stables. Falowik's jaw bunched. He did not know what to make of this. She had just fled from him. Maybe being in the presence of other Elves reminded her of what he was not, being a mere Man. Falowik heaved a sigh and chose to leave Uien to her own thoughts for now. If she needed him, the necklace lying against his chest would tell him that she thought of him. He hoped it would not be long before she did. He walked along the side of the Inn, to the horse pasture, and walked a circuit around the fence, hoping to calm his own unruly thoughts by lunch time.

[Envinyatar]

The day advanced toward a warm midday. Anyopâ and Derufin had removed their tunics as they worked with the splitting mauls. Cook had come to fetch Benat earlier to see the Mayor, leaving the two men to work their way through the large log pile.

‘Ah! You’re a sweet sight for a thirsty man!’ Derufin grinned at the approaching figure of his wife. He wiped his face and hands on his tunic and took the flagon of cold, sweet cider from her hands along with the cups. Her arm came up toward him as she lightly thrust against him with her splayed hand. His intended hug fended off successfully, she turned her cheek up toward him for a kiss.

‘A wash-up first, I think, before you have me smelling like a woodsman, sir!’ Zimzi laughed as she stepped back. Handing one of the cups to Anyopâ, she took the flagon and poured each a cup and then another. On her arm was a small basket, filled with thick cheese and ham sandwiches and some cookies from the Inn kitchen. ‘These should hold you over for a while, don’t you think?’ she asked as the two crowded about the basket, dipping their hands in for the sandwiches. ‘Cook will send Meri over in a bit with the big wagon. We’re to keep as much wood as we think we’ll need, she said. And the rest pile in the woodshed.’

Derufin nodded his head and mumbled something through his mouthful of food. Zimzi took his cheesy mumble as an agreement. Bidding Anyopâ a farewell for the moment, she left, telling them she would leave some towels out for them on kitchen table. And could they meet her later at the Inn for supper, she was taking the cart to The Water to dig some clay. Tomorrow she said she would make some pots and use some of their sweat hewn wood to fire them. Derufin waved his sandwich at her as she turned to go and nodded his head, yes.

[Saelind]

Where was that schoolroom anyway?

Thalion was having little luck in finding the small door at the back of the Inn that led to Miz Bella's school, the place where his son had probably gone. After mistakenly burgling his way into a locked storage shed and then nearly twisting the knob off the kitchen door in his impatience to locate his missing boy, he had issued an embarassed apology to Cook and made his way around to the small green door on the left where he could hear children laughing and playing, their voices wafting through the open windows into the courtyard.

He thrust his head through one of the openings and saw Neviel down on his hands and knees surrounded by other lads about half his height, doing something with a pocketful of little clay and glass balls.

Neviel leapt up with a broad grin as he saw Thalion come inside, "Oh, father. I am sorry but you were asleep. I know I should have waited, but I didn't want to sit in the room all day. And then I found Miz Bella's class. These good lads are teaching me to play marbles. They say I am doing alright." The last words were spoken with considerable pride.

Thalion fixed a stern eye on his son and was about to reprimand him when he noticed the happiness and cheerful anticipation shining in Neviel's face and eyes. It was something he had seen far too infrequently. "Please, father," the young Elf implored. " I didn't mean to run off. But I like it here. Can't we stay a while and I can go to school? You always said it would be good for me to learn to read and write Westron. I only know the runes now. Maybe you could talk with Miz Bella and see if I could stay." The boy looked up expectently at his father. Just then there was a slight rustling sound, the kind of sound made by the swirl of hobbit skirts. The noise was coming from across the room. Miz Bella had slipped in unnoticed while they were talking and was now standing just inside the doorway deep in thought.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Miz Bella stood beside the open door, carefully listening to the conversation that was going on between Neviel and his father. At first, she could scarcely believe her ears. A young Elf wanted to come and join her little school! In all her years travelling about Middle-earth, she had never heard of an Elf attending a classroom with hobbit or mannish children. In fact, she had never even encountered an Elvish child before in all the places she had journeyed. Fewer Elves were having families, and, of that small group, most had already trekked to the Havens and sailed away across the seas. Miz Bella wondered how many young Elves still remained in Middle-earth, and whether this lad might possibly be a little lonely, since he would have had few playmates of his own. She was proud, however, of the way the other hobbit lads had gently taken him under their wing and taught him to play their game.

For one moment, Miz Bella considered the problems of having an Elvish lad in the classroom. She simply did not feel qualified to teach such a youngster. For all she knew, the lad had probably heard a thousand ballads and poems about the early history of Arda and would be bored by the few little stories she could bring to the class. And how could she teach the alphabet to someone who already knew how to read and write runes, a skill that she did not even possess? And what about his father? The older Elf had a distant and slightly disdainful look on his face that suggested he was less than pleased with the idea of having his offspring in a classroom full of young rough and tumble hobbit lads.

For a moment Miz Bella hesitated and then, just as quickly, she decided. No matter who this was or what he already knew, she could not turn away a child who was eager to learn. The only problem would be persuading his father of that important fact!

Turning to face Neviel's father, she bobbed a curtsey in front of the Elf and addressed him politely, "We should be honored to have Neviel join us. I am sure we will be able to learn as much from him as he will from us."

Thalion shook his head and seemed to be going to say 'no' when Miz Bella sidled up to him and spoke in a whispered voice, "Please, give us a chance. Leave him here for the first day and see how things go. Then you can come back this afternoon to fetch him, and we can talk. I promise to take good care of him." With that final assurance, Thalion nodded, glancing back at Neviel who was beaming with excitement, and then headed reluctantly for the door.

Miz Bella turned to the other newcomer, an adult who was seated near the girls on the far side of the room. He evidently had something to say to her. "You wanted to speak with me?" she politely asked him. Miz Bella walked over to where the gentleman was seated, and was about to start a conversation, when she caught a glimpse of the way the school books were arranged on the shelf. Despite all her efforts to suppress a chuckle, she found herself giggling. With an effort she put on a straight face, cleared her throat , and looked kindly at Camille and Marigold, "Well, girls, this is most unusual. Either before or after our visitor speaks with me, you must tell me how you have arranged these books. It looks quite ingenious. The rest of you...., " Miz Bella added, "Please go ahead, take one of the slates, and sit down. We'll be starting our lessons shortly." Miz Bella looked at the stranger and the young hobbit lasses, waiting for one of them to reply.

[littlemanpoet]

The stables were dark after the sunlight Uien had run from. They were warm, too, with the heat and pleasant fleshy odor of horses, including their own Kírsul; he sensed her coming and nickered, scuffing his hooves against the haystrewn dirt of his stall.

"Good morn to you too, my sweet," she murmured, and stroked his sides.

The horse's warm hide beneath her long fingers soothed her a little. He peered back at her, blowing his haybreath against her, his nose rummaging against her skirt, looking for treats that were not there. Finally he gazed her as if he had much on his mind.

"I know we promised that we would be gone yesterday, my sweet, and I am sorry. But a lad with weak legs..." her words died. ...needs no help from me. She let out a shaky sigh.

"Something lies deeper than that. Does it not?"

"I -I do not know!" She left off stroking Kírsul's sides and cast her glance about the floor and walls until she spied a rough piece of wood that had been cast off as useless by someone unknown. Derufin has been distracted with his new wife, she thought, or he would have made sure this had an orderly place. Her mouth formed a small smile. She took out her knife and began to shave bits of wood away, seeking the form that lay beneath the husk of the wood. Her feet guided themselves, taking her out of the stables, around behind the Inn. She sat upon the grass, not far from Cook's garden, and tied back the long blonde tresses descending to her waist. Her mind stilled, busy with the wood.

Many minutes later, an unknown shape beginning to reveal itself from within the block of wood, Uien looked up and noticed a little green door, closed, that she had not remembered from before. Had it been painted while they had been gone? She could not remember. She heard childish laughter come from it once, and smiled, thinking of little Marigold and Rory. The thought of the boy no longer brought sorrow, for Falowik, her beloved Lauréatan, had been right. Something lay beneath that momentary sadness. Maybe the shape her knife carved from beneath this piece of wood, could help her understand.

[WarBringer]

A young man trudged down the road, rain-stained cloak draped over his body. At his side, he gripped his long Ranger sword, Raukorist. It had been a long time since Valthalion had ventured into the Green Dragon, almost a year. It was simply not in his nature to linger in one place for too long, but when he saw the Inn afire on that night long ago, he had been compelled to help. Now, after almost a year of hunting and fighting in the North alongside King Elessar's elite rangers, the youth desired a rest at one of his favorite places.

As he strode into the Inn, Valthalion bumped into a man. He wore rich, dark clothes and was well groomed and clean shaven. Valthalion was about to apologize, when he recognized the man. He could not believe his eyes! It was Snaveling, the very man whom he had ran into at the Inn fire, and with whom he had feuded with for weeks. But something was different...He looked noble, strong even. When the two had last met, Snaveling had been a sneaking crook who was simply looking for loot while others battled the blaze. Now he was dressed as Valthalion had dressed for ceremony in Elessar's realm.

"Hail, Snaveling! It's been a long time", said Valthalion. Despite his best efforts, his teeth clenched.

"Indeed Valthalion, I had wondered where you had gotten to", he replied.

"Forgive me, Snaveling, but how is it that you came by such rich raiment. When we last met, you looked different. What has happened?"

Snaveling stared at him, and began to tell what had happened to him...

[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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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