The Seventh Star Inn

[Child of the 7th Age]

"....How is it that I know her?" Aiwendil repeated Rôg's initial query and glanced sidewise at his young friend, wondering just how much he dared reveal. "I have known Pio a very long time. I met her shortly after I landed in this part of the world."

The old man sounded tired and hesitated for a moment, but finally continued with his story. "A distant kinsman of mine had dealings with Pio and her husband. He was using the Star to transport some folk up the river who hoped to settle along the banks of the Anduin and in the western part of the forest formerly known as Greenwood. I offered to help guide her friends northward. In recent years, I've seen her several times. She has always dealt fairly with me and, although she can be hot headed at times, I've found her to have good judgment and a kind heart. Indeed, the woman can be a whirlwind at times when it comes to getting things done. As to her personal affairs, I know little." An image of Mithadan and their three little ones, especially the impetuous Cami, slipped through his mind.

"The Skinchanger from the north? Her name is Bird. I know less of her than I do of Pio. But I will say she can be incredibly persistent when it comes to safeguarding her friends, and that she and Pio were companions on the road for some years."

Aiwendil hesitated before continuing, "There was a time, long ago, when I thought Bird might help me accomplish an important task. A task that had been laid down for me from one in authority far across the Seas. But, alas, I did not see her for many years. And, by then, all chance of accomplishing anything seemed to have vanished. It has indeed been a while since I have even thought of her." An uneasy feeling stirred in the recesses of the old man's mind, which he hastily pushed down.

"But, come! Enough idle talk. Shall we try to arrange that passage with the shipmaster whom Pio recommended?"

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:08 PM December 22, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[mark12_30]

The muffled noise in the hallway repeated itself, sounding suspiciously like a snort. Red turned, baffled, and peered out the door, careful not to overstretch his back while doing so.

From behind her basket of linens, Mellonin burst into peals of laughter. "Forgive me--" she gasped, "I am sorry. I'm sure you are doing your best. Forgive me."

His surprised expression faded into a resentful frown, and she immediately composed herself, and entered the room, placing her basket on a part of the floor that was still dry.

"Raefindan, you're obviously of noble blood. Your hands are far too soft. Whatever else you may have forgotten, working with your hands isn't one of them; you never learned it in the first place," she said, more gently now. "Look at you... you need something to kneel on; didn't you think of that? And you might want to wrap your hands."

Red shook his head. "Never mind my knees. My back is what really hurts. And I don't think I have that much noble blood, either."

She smiled. "Which began to hurt first, your knees or your back?"

He scowled at her.

"Your knees hurt first, and you tried to favor them. And then your back began to hurt."

He stood up, painfully. "All right. I'm clueless. Tell me."

Now it was her turn to frown. "Clueless?"

"It means-- well, it means that I'm confused, I'm sorry, and I'll listen to what you have to say."

She nodded, and let it go. "Here, no one will miss this." She folded up a blanket and handed it to him. "Wait here." She returned with some strips of cloth. "For your hands." She then picked up her basket of linens. "I must get several rooms ready. I will return as soon as I may." Raefindan began wrapping his hands, and Mellonin slipped out.

As she worked, she puzzled over the new stranger. With his soft hands, he couldn't be anything but royalty. Clearly he was not from Minas Tirith; even if his mind had become addled, and he forgot where he was from, others would have recognized him if he had been from this city. But neither Rohan, nor Dol Amroth, nor Dale had any red-headed royalty that she had ever heard of. All the mannish royalty she knew of was either golden haired or dark.

How did he come by the red hair? Did he have dwarf blood? She shuddered at the implications; but no. It was obviously a foolish idea; he stood straight and tall and rather slender, and was clearly, purely mannish. He just had red hair.

And completely soft hands. "Not even weapon-calluses, " she muttered. "Nothing. What did he do? Where is he from?"

She wondered more and more if Raefindan's mystery might not be somehow connected to her brother's disappearance. If he could appear, could her brother disappear? But if Raefindan couldn't tell her his own story, how would she learn, how would she guess if there was any connection?

[littlemanpoet]

Raefindan hoped that Mellonin didn't take his facial expressions to heart. He liked to exaggerate his expressions now and then. He would have to show her just how exaggerated he could be some time, when she knew him better. But now he had to ask himself how he knew that about himself, and he again came up with no answer. Royal blood? He thought not. Most assuredly not! More likely he was the court jester, or whatever there was akin to that wherever he had come from. Hmm.... clueless. He knew the word was one that came naturally to his mind. Should I be more careful that my words reflect this place? He felt that he should, but that he would probably let some things slip. He shrugged.

He knelt on the blanket Melonnin had provided, and grabbed the brush around his cloth-wrapped hands. Yes, he could feel the difference. He could put more of his weight into his brushing. And now he grimaced as the pain moved into his shoulders, arms, and wrists. He figured that it was as it should be, for he was finally doing it right. He straightened, looking at the floor as if he had seen a ghost there.

"Well, by George, look at that!"

Raefindan could see how much cleaner the spot was where he had just worked on, compared to the areas he had been slaving over. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh no. Now I'll need to go back over the rest of it. I'm going to die before I get this done!"

He looked over his shoulder, hoping nobody had heard that little bit of melodrama. Melodrama. Now, there as another word he knew, and knew what it meant, but was sure it did not fit in this land and place. What would Melonnin say about it? 'Melo' would be related to 'friend' in the elvish speech here, he considered as he sloshed the brush in the bucket again, and 'drama' had no place in any bit of the elvish speech that he knew of.

"And how, Raefindan, do you know that?" It was as if he knew this place from wherever he had come from. How? He did not know, and wished he did. He grimaced again, stopped to crack his back, and fell to his assignment yet again. And he would have to find out who 'George' was now, too.

[mark12_30]

Mellonin looked in on Raefindan, and he looked up at her with a weary smile.

"Much better," she said. "Morien will give you dinner after all."

The look of dismay that crossed Raefindan's face drew another giggle from Mellonin, and she entered, and put her empty basket down. "No, I don't think he's really harsh enough to refuse you food. But he wants us to think he is."

"He didn't strike me that way, " Raefindan replied, scrubbing.

"I suppose not," Mellonin mused. "Perhaps I'm thinking of my old master instead. But anyway, you'll be done in time for dinner at least. Have you remembered anything?"

Raefindan looked down at his red hands. "No. Not even who George is. Any news of your brother?"

She shook her head ruefully. They exchanged wry looks, and with a shrug and a sigh he turned back to his scrub-brush. "I'll sleep well tonight, after this. Maybe by morning I'll have remembered... something. Or perhaps at dinner you can ask me questions, and maybe that will jar my memory and I'll remember. Would you like to try that?"

She brightened. "All right. Yes." Feeling a little more hopeful, she went to fetch a broom and sweep the stairs and the hallway.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 2:29 PM December 31, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[littlemanpoet]

It was late and the commons was almost empty. All of the guests had been served and left for home or to bed. Raefindan sat at table with a bowl of stew in one hand and a dark brown ale in the other. He placed both before him and heaved a sigh. He stretched his back once, and then set to. In moments half of both drink and stew were gone.

Mellonin came by with her own bowl of stew and a cup of clear liquid. "You've gained yourself an appetite!" She sat in the chair next to him.

"How could I not? I haven't worked that hard ever in my life." Raefindan met her eyes as she ate her stew. He could tell she what thought. "Yes, I know I'm soft by the standards of this place, but from where I come-" he lapsed into silence, staring a moment into his cup before returning his gaze to her. "- I think - I'm considered about average."

She swallowed. "How can that be? Who does your labor if all of you are soft as you?"

Raefindan frowned, perplexed. "I don't know!" He dipped his wooden spoon into his bowl of stew again, and lifted it to his mouth. "We don't have wooden spoons at table." He put the spoon in his mouth.

"What then?"

"Metal," he said, chewing.

"Metal? What is that?"

"A kind of ore from the ground. Like iron for swords, only made into spoons."

Mellonin looked at him in disbelief. "Is metal so common where you come from then?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

[mark12_30]

Raefindan looked up as Mellonin choked on her drink.

"Mellonin, are you all right?"

Muffled explosions of laughter at her own clumsiness alternated with coughing spells, both of which she vainly tried to suppress. Finally she calmed herself, wheezing slightly. Raefindan watched her, worried.

"I'm sorry, " she coughed. "Where were we?"

"Metal spoons."

She continued, wheezing. "Mettle spoons. It reminds me of Nettle. Nettle spoons... Ouch. That sounds like a very uncomfortable way to eat."

He decided to change the subject slightly. "I remember that I didn't walk very long distances the way people here commonly do. Somehow, traveling was less time consuming. I'm not certain how or why."

"You rode horses." Mellonin shrugged.

"Not normally."

"Mumak?" she said, alarm in her voice.

Raefindan laughed. "No. No Mumakil."

She relaxed. "But where did you ride to?"

"Classes."

She frowned.

And so did he, putting his head into his hands. "I don't understand. I can't remember."

"Eat, " she said. "How about some more soup?"

He sighed. "Please."

She got up to fetch a round of seconds, and he stared at the table.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 1:24 PM January 05, 2004: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[littlemanpoet]

I'm sorry, Melonnin," Raefindan said. I seem to be experiencing hallucinations as well as general amnesia. I thihk it's high time for me to get some sleep. I'm sorry about the soup, but I've lost my appetite. I haven't touched it. Please feel free to put it back in the pot."

Raefindan got up and tried as hard as he could to go around the illusory image of a mage whose power went beyond all bounds of Arda, let alone the commons.

"I really must drink less of the heady ale around here," he murmured as he tilted his way up one flight of stairs and found the room appointed to him.

[mark12_30]

"Raefindan? Weren't you sleeping out in the loft?" Mellonin called after him.

Groggily, he swayed back down the stairs, one hand to his head. "The loft. Of course." He headed out the back kitchen door. "Quieter out there, " she sighed, and retired soon afterwards.

The mouse watched her depart, and then ventured forth into the mulch pile. He found plenty to fill his stomach, including a full bowlsworth of fresh soup. For the first time in many months, his coat was sleek.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 8:29 PM January 04, 2004: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[mark12_30]

Mellonin rolled over and sat up, squinting at the dust in the sunbeams, and stretched, and rubbed her eyes. She dressed quickly, hoping that the grey serving staff had the teakettle on. Snatching up her pen and parchments, she rolled them together, and then placed the newly mixed bottle of ink (made from the blackest soot she could find in all the Seventh Star kitchen) into her apron pocket. Then she paused. What if the cork wasn't tight? She removed it, and carried it carefully upright down the stairs.

No one had arrived yet, but the grey serving staff did indeed have the teakettle hot. She thanked them, and brewed some, and sat down to study her runes. When she finished the tea, she stood, and walked slowly around the Common Room, rune by rune sounding out the signs. When Morien came downstairs she was engrossed in the label of a bottle of wine. He cleared his throat, and she guiltily put the bottle away.

"Well? What did it say?"

She blushed, picked the bottle back up, and stuttered, "The finest shimmering harvest from Dor-En-Ernil on the bay of Belfalas."

He snorted. "Well, it's good, and good enough, but I won't say I've never had better. Good morning, lass," he said, nodding at the waiter in grey, who placed a steaming plate of breakfast before him. Her set to with a will.

[littlemanpoet]

Raefindan walked into the commons, rubbing his forehead as if trying to remove cobwebs of sleep from his mind. He made his way to a table on legs that did not wish to work right and rested an elbow on the table and used his hand to prop up his head.

"Good morning! Are you well?" It was Melonnin.

"I'm not sure. Bad dream."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Are you hungry?"

Raefindan nodded. He looked around; it seemed quiet. "If you have a moment...?"

"I think I can spare a little time. I'll be back with some food and tea."

She soon returned. He was hungry, and ate a few bites and sipped his tea before he began.

"I was someone else, a prince of some seaside fortress city. I was walking in the woods nearby, and saw an Elven woman who was lost. I took her to safety and I learned her tale from her. She - she was beautiful! I - I -" Raefindan broke off, a weight of sorrow pulling at the edges of his mouth. He face Melonnin, his eyes filling. "I fell in love with her." He looked away and stared at his bowl of porridge. "She did not reject me, so I don't know why I feel as if she-" he shook his head. "-died." He wiped at his eye. "I do not know who she was, but it felt as if what I dreamed was real. I dreamed someone else's life, I think." He turned to Melonnin. "Have I gone daft or worse?"

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 10:21 PM February 06, 2004: Message edited by: littlemanpoet ]

[littlemanpoet]

Mellonin said, "Maybe it is your past you dream of?"

Raefindan nodded. "Maybe. Or yes and no. I don't think that I lived near water where I come from. And the two Elven women, I had never seen before. But that she died - or someone died - maybe that did happen." He allowed a rueful smile. "George or no George."

[mark12_30]

Mellonin studied Raefindan. "You do not seem to me like one who has gone... daft, " she said slowly. "You seem sad, but not moonstruck."

"Moonstruck..." He shook his head, and ran a hand through his fiery hair. In moments, his eyes glazed.

Mellonin glanced at his bowl of porridge, knowing that the workday would begin sooner than Raefindan wanted it to.

"Raefindan?"

He frowned, wishing she had left him in his reverie.

"A busy day will help you to forget your bad dream."

"It wasn't all bad, " he replied.

There was something about this that reminded her of Mellondu, if only she could remember what. Now it was her turn to frown.

"You two think too much, " said Morien. They both jumped; perhaps he was right...

"Red, you can scrub the empty room across the hall from where you were yesterday. And Mel, didn't you notice we've had breakfast arrivals?" He returned to the bar and began preparing pots of mulled cider.

Raefindan shoveled porridge into his mouth, grimacing with the effort it took to swallow, but knowing he would rue it later if he left any now.

Mellonin touched his sleeve. "I will visit when I may, " she said, and swept toward the breakfast customers, smiling and chatting. Raefindan finished his porridge, and with a last shudder brought the bowl to the kitchen and climbed the stairs gritting his teeth.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:25 AM January 28, 2004: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[mark12_30]

She sat at the bar for a moment, just a moment, and rested her forehead on her hands. The dizziness persisted. Folding her arms, she laid her head on them and closed her eyes. Her head hurt and she suddenly regretted her breakfast.

A customer called, and with a glance at Mellonin, Morien tended to the customer himself. Mellonin was left sitting alone at the bar.

To the north, snowflakes eddied and swirled, smoothing the details of the land. The golden leaves of Lorien hung heavily under its weight. The leaves stirred in the wind, but the wet snow clung and did not fall. Amroth paced the forest, searching, hunting, feeling that she was always just over the next hill or around the next bend. Desolation crept in with the wet and cold; he shrugged it off, pressing deeper into the forest.

In the south, the grey sea surged and sighed. The air was warm; the breeze whispered of peace, of calm, of hope that had been. Memories of the sun were sweet and gentle, but the sun was hidden, and the northern sky was dark. Imrazor searched the woods, calling, calling. No one answered. Ever and anon, he looked over his shoulder to the sea; if she had taken that road, she was lost to him forever. He turned back to the woods. Where was she? He crested another rise, and called again. His words were lost in the fog.

In the north, a storm rumbled, whipped by a wild wind. All but imprisoned by glistening ice, a small cascade of water yet sang as it tumbled over cold stone. Liting, lyrical, the stream sang on and on, lost in the tearing wind and rumbing thunder. Few heard the song, and those that did heard only the echoes of an old melody, and heeded only the memories of that which was past. No one heeded the despair that was present.

Fog. Ice. Darkness. Despair, echoes, silence. Mellondu's breath came in short gasps. He gazed into a stream, and golden and brown locks of hair swirled in the water. At the seaside, women's voices echoed in his ears, whispering, singing, pleading. He searched for them, calling, running. There were no answers. He was drenched with sweat. He ran on. Or was he swimming? He could not breathe. He cried out; was it fog, or darkness, or water, or storm that took away the sound of his cry? Or had he made no sound at all?

"Are you all right, Mel? Mellonin?"

With a start, she woke, and looked around, wildeyed. "Mellondu?" she whispered.

"You look pale, lass," Morien growled. Then he leaned closer, whispering. "Don't you go getting sick here in the common room in front of all these customers."

"My brother, " she whimpered, and lurched to her feet. Her wide eyes strayed to the staircase. "Raefindan--" Then she swayed and clutched at the chair with one hand and at her stomach with the other.

Customer's heads were beginning to turn. Morien gestured at a few of the staff; one of them stepped to the bar while Morien took Mellonin's elbow and firmly escorted her out of the common room.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 2:39 PM January 28, 2004: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[mark12_30]

Morien escorted Mellonin to the doorway of her room. She followed his gesture and went to the bed and sat down. Morien kept going down the hallway, to the linen closet where he fetched several folded blankets. Returning to Mellonin's room he looked in. Mellonin was already curled up under her blankets. He leaned into the room, and draped the folded blankets across the headboard.

He turned, closing the door behind him, and went to find Raefindan, who with hardened eyes and set jaw was scrubbing another floor.

"Mellonin looks awfully pale. Get her a bucket. Make sure her floor stays clean, and try and get her some fresh air without giving her a chill."

Raefindan nodded, wondering why Mellonin was sick, but he got up, and found a bucket and brought it to her room. He knocked hesitantly. No answer. He knocked harder and was answered with a muffled "Go away..."

"I was told to bring you a bucket, Miss Cheerful," he retorted.

"Leave it," came the muffled answer.

He opened the door, and slid the bucket along the floor towards the bed. She pulled the covers up over her head and disappeared completely.

For the next three weeks, very little was seen of Mellonin. She complained of fever, aches, pains, strange dreams, and the smallest of noises sounding like thunder. Although the grey-clad wait-staff met her needs, Raefindan checked on her every day and asked how she was feeling.

She was hardly sociable, or even civil. Raefindan came to dread his daily visit as a chore. But he persevered.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 7:39 PM February 01, 2004: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[littlemanpoet]

Over three weeks, Raefindan adjusted to life at the inn. Morien pressed him to step in for Melonnin in the commons, which he enjoyed much more than scrubbing floors.

The only thing he did not enjoy were his dreams. They all followed the same theme. He was glad they did not come every night. He had found his dreams persuasive and bothersome enough to ask Morien if he knew anything about people named Amroth, Nimrodel, Imrazor, and especiallly Mithrellas. For the people in his dreams spoke these names.

Morien told him of the legend of Amroth and Nimrodel, in which Imrazor and Mithrellas played a role. It all made sense, except for one thing: why was he dreaming this legend? It boggled his mind.

The two most bothersome things about his dreams were that he was Imrazor, and that he was falling in love with Mithrellas, who, for him, was somehow more than the Mithrellas of legend, but how he could not put into clear thought. It was not exactly as if she herself one thing in his dreams and another in legend. Rather, in his dreams, his response as Imrazor was out of keeping with the legend, as if he foresaw her death, or remembered it somehow.

He checked in on Melonnin every day, hoping she would be better. He hoped that she would be able to tell him more than Morien could. He didn't know why that might be so, but so it was.

[Rimbaud]

****In a dark and hidden place of Gondor ****


"How dare you? I was needed."

"It was not safe and you were not there to share in the decision, Master Innkeeper."

The invalid snorted, but weakly, then had to catch his breath.

"And my safety is always of such paramount importance," he whispered fiercely, spitting out the last two words.

"Stop, the fever has made you angry. You must rest, Rimbaud."

"You don't understand," he managed, through cracked lips. "We caused a delay only, a disturbance in the turn of events. The Princess and I... Where is she?"

"Safe."

"Always this word with you, Healer," the voice was fading into darkness again now, but still the eyes glimmered and the hooded woman could not prevent a shiver. She tucked the odd white star-shaped stone back inside his ruined tunic and sighed.

She leant closer. He was still trying. "I must..." The fever snatched him away again, and she sat up, unthinkingly smoothing her hands on her cloak.

The fever should break tonight and maybe in the morning he would be lucid. She felt the purpling bruise above her eye. Maybe.

****

[Rimbaud]

One week later


Break it had, and lucid he was, but Bethberry the Healer was not sure if she did not prefer the Innkeeper asleep.

“Come now, the mare can move faster than this,” he snapped, his eyes fixed forwards, sitting in the same tense position beside her on the bench of the cart, bent double with his arms on his knees.

“No need, valacirca,” she murmured as before, using an old nickname of his. “You are sick and admit you know not what you face.”

“The Princess and I will decide.”

“Just you two? The fate of the White City?” Her voice had no edge, but he shifted briefly to glare at her, before fixing his eyes again on the road ahead.

“Well, we can form a Council,” he said. “I just need to be back, to garner my information, to see the lay of the land, to converse with the princess and those who cared for the Star in my absence. Few know of its secrets and its importance.”

“The labyrinth beneath,” she said, calmly. She was not stupid. However, her perspicacity had only the effect of silence upon him.

Rimbaud of the blue and grey, innkeeper and more, was driven. Driven by the inner force that had kept the gimlet blue of his eyes even in the darkest places; he had the unflappable Healer on edge. What did he know of the secrets beneath the Inn? What treachery had he spoken of in his fever dreams? How did the Lady Estelyn know so much of what was happening? The Healer sighed and drew again gently on the reins. It was not her way to be so curious; yet she had Wyrd fluttering everywhere in search of the truth.

One thing was certain. Whatever danger had been uncovered, neither the half-dead Rimbaud, nor Estelyn would go to the Guard or higher in the City. This told her of high treachery, and made her spine cold as she thought of her friends within the city walls.

***

It was the same scenario as before when they reached the postern gate of the Star. Rimbaud lifted his hand, the weak moonlight flickered off his ring, and the gate swung slowly open. This time he laughed at her almost veiled questioning look.

“Olaf sleeps not,” he smiled, for the first time in months. “There is a lever in his cottage for the gate, and a bell that rings when we rounded that last corner."

“A sort of magic then,” she smiled back. “I cannot stay. I will leave you here.”

He nodded absently, and she knew she’d gain no thanks for her weeks of ministrations as he lay dying, twice poisoned, and at times half-mad.

***

Still in this way, he of the blue and grey returned to the Seventh Star of Gondor, sending word for Estelyn who was staying at the Library. The staff had locked his room against him, but it had many entrances. None saw him return bar Olaf, who would say nothing. Still moving only from force of will, he moved to the bed. He had much work to do in the morning.

He would need to find out who was in the Inn and more importantly why. He had more enemies than he had imagined, but perhaps more friends too. He needed to find a trustworthy coterie. He needed sleep.

[Rimbaud]

“Incredible,” said the Princess politely, but with evident fatigue. “Fascinating.”

“Well, indeed!” enthused the aged librarian, his rheumy eyes doing something akin to shining. “This is a very rare manuscript, and I’m sure you will not mind my remarking that even I was not aware of its presence here. Truly incredible. But so archaic, and such ridiculous claims! A truly remarkable find, my lady, you must forgive an old man’s enthusiasm.”

He drew to a close, breathing heavily. His gnarled but deft fingertips brushed the surface of the tattered parchment cautiously.

Estelyn smiled, although had he been looking directly at her, he would have seen it was more a grimace than an expression containing any pleasure. She knew too well the veracity of some of the parchment’s ‘claims’. A secret society devoted to the construction, protection and secrecy of the great Lab’rinthe under Minas Tirith… This would have been peculiar enough, but what had nearly cracked her imperturbability was the constant and almost shameless mention of Gorthaur’s Will.

However, her mind was made up. She needed to make her way to Mount Mindolluin, and before that, pay the visit to the Seventh Star that a peculiar summons that morning warranted.

“Keep it safe,” she pressed the librarian. “Many find documents containing such claims of these dark materials to be foul and would…”

“My lady,” he hissed with asperity and some good humour. “I have worked here long enough…”

She left with half a smile playing on her features, but a chill upon her heart.

On to the Star.

[mark12_30]

RPG Proposal Under Development: Friends Of Nimrodel (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=10334) : Tapestry of Dreams


She rolled over with a groan, and sat up, peering into the shaft of sunlight that Raefindan had just let into the room. "Must you? Oh, it's you."

"Good morning to you, too."

She sniffed, and then mumbled "Thank you."

"How about some fresh air?"

"Please."

He stepped out and returned a moment later. She had risen and hastily donned a tunic and a cloak. "Oh, dear, I certainly need a bath. No, don't get too close."

He snorted. "Why do you think I wanted to open a window? I have questions to ask you. You can answer them through the washroom door if you like, but I need answers."

"That would hardly be modest. But I can bathe in the stables."

"That's modest?"

"If I hang enough horse-blankets and you promise to be honorable, yes."

"You're incorrigible."

"In-- Incorr--" They turned towards the back stair and headed down for the stables.

"Incorrigible means that you are terribly annoying and stubborn! Now tell me about Nimrodel. And Amroth. And--"

She gasped, eyes wild with hope, and Raefindan turned a hard stare on her.

"Mellondu! You have dreamed about Mellondu!"

"What? Your brother? No, I haven't--"

"Yes you have!" she accused, siezing his arm. "Tell me! Hide nothing from me!"

[Ransom]

The night before…(a.k.a The Attack of the Midnight Writer)

The gray-clad servants had extinguished the lamps and retreated from the room shortly before the moon had a third of its journey through the night sky. Without their ministrations, the fire in the common room of the Seventh Star had collapsed into a mound of glowing embers. Shadows flickered and danced across the walls, spawned by a quartet of candles that drove the darkness from a table in the middle of the hall. Despite the fairly reasonable size of the table, messenger cylinders, scrolls stray scraps of paper, and a handful of empty inkwells all but hid the surface. A large, black tome sat in front of the only occupant, its pages covered with small, spidery script. His labors had begun shortly after the evening meal, when he broke the wax seals on the scrolls and began reading. When the last drunken guests had stumbled into the beds, he began to write

While he waited for his final letters to dry, the Gondorian carefully sorted the scrolls and returned them to their respective cases. A little candle wax and a small stamp ensured that no curious maids would be doing some supplementary research the next morning. The inkpots went back into his small writing box along with the feather pens and a small sharpening knife. He gathered up the remaining scraps of paper and deposited on top of the embers, giving them several experimental prods with a fire poker to ensure their timely destruction. After tucking the scrolls and the now closed book under the other arm, he blew out three of the candles. The moon had just begun its downward trip when the guest extinguished the candle and settled in for the night.

The next morning…

Rimbaud’s clandestine entry into his establishment had succeeded in securing the bruised and battered innkeeper a good night’s rest. Olaf gave the proper commands in the dim twilight before the dawn, and the servants and cooks sprang into action. Most of the guests rose with the crowing of the roosters and began to prepare for their return to the long and dusty road. Some simply purchased traveling rations from the kitchen and went on their way. Centuries of experience had demonstrated to merchants that eating on the run (or walk, or ride) greatly cut the travel time and, conversely, increased the long run profit. Others, who did not feel the pressure of time, loitered long enough to enjoy the prize-winning breakfasts before departing. Finally, some guests intended to remain at the inn through the next morning (or perhaps beyond). These, like Rimbaud and the previously mentioned nighowl, generally did not rise until after the ninth or tenth hour had come and gone.

Despite his late rising, Casimir Danwedh exuded a general impression of untidiness and sleepiness. Two large bags hung beneath his eyelids, strongly hinting that the Gondorian had not slept well for an extended period of time. His short beard and long, black hair had obviously not suffered the discipline of a comb, and generally shot off at an odd angle. While he had not spent the time to tidy up his appearance, his clothing bore some evidence of decent attention. A tunic bearing the coat of arms of Gondor hung around his shoulders, held in place by gravity and a skillfully designed leather belt. In contrast, Casimer wore fairly nondescript brown trousers and leather, dirt caked boots.

He stumbled across the room and dropped into a chair not far away from his previous workplace. To his relief, the servants had cleared away any remaining traces of his labor. The innkeeper would, no doubt, charge a premium price for the number of candles Casimer had consumed during his research. Two gray clad servants, bearing a cup of some hot liquid and a bowl of porridge, approached and set their burden on the table. The scent of freshly brewed tea drove the last vestiges of sleep from the official’s addled brains. He nodded thankfully to both servants before beginning his morning meal.

[littlemanpoet]

He wrinkled his nose. "I will, but first you need to get cleaned up. And you need to tell me about your dreams, too. I insist, you first. Be a dear."

"Be a deer? But I'm a human. What do you mean, be a deer?"

Raefindan shook his head. "Not deer as in animal, but dear as in a kindly, caring - oh, never mind! Do you wish for me to wait outside, or do we go to the stables?"

[Bêthberry]

Mid morning found the Healer tired but pleased. She had accomplished her preliminary distractions in appearing so openly in The White City.

With Wyrd at her side, or, more properly, hovering near her or sitting on her arm, she had visited her usual round of merchants and traders. She had made every effort to be seen as she went about her business of contracting for comestibles for the Inn, spices for the kitchen, rare currents and other dried fruits, and the precious beans of coffee which made The Horse favoured over other inns of Edoras. It was important for people to remember her in the market, to recall that the Innkeeper from Rohan was making one of her regular visits to The White City for supplies for her inn.

That Wyrd had sent birds and fowl fluttering madly in their cages was all the better, she thought, for establishing her presence as a natural function of her regular duties. With Wyrd, too, people took less care to muffle their conversations from her, believing she was involved in supervising him. She overheard much that had not been meant for her ears and so discovered easily what tales went whispering around the city in these strange days.

Then, satisfied with her purchases and discoveries, she wrote a note advising her most trusted broker what goods to prepare for the convey north on the Great West Road. Entrusting it to the small cylinder on Wyrd's leg, she sent him off, hoping that sight of him would inspire people to believe she was hear him. Then, she silently retreated from the market, dodging this way and that through the narrow alleys. She had her main purpose still to satisfy before she could return to the Star.

* * *

Luck was with her as she found the Herb Master tending his garden, so entranced with the leaves on some of his plants that he saw not her entrance.

She peered over his shoulder at the blackened leaves, and recognized the typical sign of poisoning by walnut trees.

"You need to move your plants to the other side of the garden," she commented quietly but amiably.

Startled, he looked up, with a frown. Bethberry was a healer like himself, and he knew her well, but he liked not her knowing the problems of his garden.

"It is a dry season, and the plants suffer. I merely need to water them more," he replied nonchalantly, with the air of one accustomed to having his wisdom accepted.

"True, true," she acknowledged while deciding she could use the situation to her advantage. "Yet, perhaps if you move some, but not all, you can test my idea." From his scowl, she knew he would not want to mention her presence here, yet would be greatly tempted to try her suggestion.

He changed the subject, drawing her away from his dying plants but inadvertently disclosing the rather higher incidence of poisonings and beatings that he had to contend with. As he described the symptoms and characteristics, she realized she had been lucky to save the Innkeeper.

"You'd best prepare yourself for this." The Herb Master's voice drew her back from her thoughts and she found him volunteering to augment her supply of herbs and tinctures, salves and oils.

'Good," she thought to herself. 'He will not realize I had come to him for these very potions and supplies. Let not word spread that the Healer had depleted her supply in ministering to one who should be dead. Perhaps it will be best if he be thought dead." Yet to the Herb Master, she expressed her gratitude and debt that she would now be prepared should any problems appear on her road back to Rohan.

She withdrew, believing her appearance in the House of Healing would not be remarked upon, but was suddenly called to.

"Why Mistress Bethberry, if I had known you were to be here, I would have planned a lunch. Or at least called our dear friends together. Why, it has been a half year since we saw you last. And you wrote not of your coming."

The Healer's heart sank. With Ioreth knowing of her visit here, soon likely most of Gondor would know she had sought the Houses of Healing. Still, it could not be helped and possibly there would be something she could learn of recent events in the city. She smiled.

"Ioreth, I had little time. A stable fire left me without horse and passing travelers offered the only chance for my journey here to replenish supplies. You would noy believe how some had come to question my coffee--hose very beans you told me so much about. But let me not talk of myself. Come, tell me what other grand items you know of that I could use."

As the two walked towards the bench where shone the mid morning sun, and Ioreth nattered on good naturedly, Bethberry knew it would be some time ere she could return to the Star. Yet return she would. It would take more than the Innkeeper?s ingratitude to turn her thoughts away from the dangers he and the Princess faced. She had not kept watch over him these terrible days and learned nothing from his fevered disclosures.

[Rimbaud]

He gave his orders peremptorily but knew they would be followed closely. Then, when he had fielded the questions of these, his most trusted staff and acquaintances, he asked, “So, what of events here? Who is staying at the Star?”

It was the tall groundskeeper who smiled, showing all of his teeth. “That, good Master Rimbaud, is a very long story. There are wheels within wheels here…”

He was interrupted by Olaf snorting agreement, and the Mistress of the Kitchens trying to explain the arrangements that had been made in his absence, and the one of the junior cooks trying, with great excitement, to explain about the odd young men that had been staying.

Rimbaud of Gondor soon wished he had not asked.

[mark12_30]

Mellonin considered Raefindan, and with a sigh, regained her composure. "For three days I have dreamt of my brother. Mingled with my dreams of him, have been dreams of Nimrodel and Amroth. They are woven together, somehow, like one of the banners in the Great Hall. I do not understand it."

She could go back to the Inn, she reasoned, or she could wash here on the stone floor; they had arrived at the stables. It was early enough that there weren't many about, and she wanted the fresh air anyway; she chose a place to hang four blankets for privacy. Raefindan lent a hand.

"The dreams of Amroth are restless, full of searching. The dreams of Nimrodel are drenched in despair. And the dreams of Mellondu are dark, and confusing, and... sad."

She filled a bucket of water at the well, and brought it to the stone floor, and chose the cleanest rag available.

Raefindan blinked. "Don't you want some hot water?"

She laughed, a little, as she went within the curtains. "Of course I do. But there isn't a fireplace out here, and I don't have all day... Ugh."

He turned his back to the curtains, and stood guard as she scrubbed. She talked on, rambling for quite a while about fog and snow and forests and darkness and locks of hair swirling in the water, and Raefindan rubbed his forehead as he struggled to follow it all.

"What I don't understand, " she finished petulantly, "is what all these dreams about Nimrodel and Amroth have to do with my brother. They lived a thousand years ago. Amroth is dead. They're both dead. What does that mean? That my brother is dead too?" She bit back the temptation to cry that had been eating away at her for three days now. "I've never been to Rohan, or to Lothlorien, or even to Belfalas or -- well, I have't been down the river beyond where it bends around south of the city. But in my dreams, I think that is where I have been. I am not sure. I have seen rolling plains filled with horses, and I have seen golden trees in the snow, and I have seen.... I think in my dreams I have seen the sea." She fought for composure again. "But I don't understand in all of this where Mellondu is. If you have been dreaming of Amroth and Nimrodel, then you must understand where he is. That must be why you came here. Tell me, do you not know where he is?"

Raefindan shook his head. "Mellonin, I am sorry. No, I don't know where he is. My dreams ..." he shook his head. "No, I haven't dreamt about your brother. My dreams have been very different. What do your dreams tell you about a man named Imrazor?"

"Imrazor?"

"Or Mithrellas."

"Isn't that a woman's name?"

"Yes, of course."

"You said what do I know about a man named Imrazor--"

"I take it you don't know about either of them."

"No. What do you know about them? ...I'm almost out of water. I need anther bucket, please."

He looked around, found another bucket, and went to the well, and came back. Her teeth were chattering.

"Mellonin, you've been sick, and here you are taking a cold sponge-bath in a stable in early winter. I hope you don’t get worse."

"A little water never hurt anyone, " she replied through still-chattering teeth. "I'm almost done."

"I still don't have any answers, and it'll be time to go to work soon. Morien knew more about Mithrellas then you do, " Raefindan replied.

"Well I'm sorry, " she snapped. "You haven't been very helpful about my brother, either."

"Hey, take it easy, " Raefindan said.

"I haven't taken anything!"

He put one hand to his head. "Don't be upset. What is the matter with you? You weren't like this before!"

Dripping, but dressed and cloaked and fully modest, she reappeared and began taking down the blankets. He helped her fold them.

"I don't mean to be rude. I am worried about my brother; I have done so little to find him. I have enjoyed working here at the Inn, and he is out there somewhere, lost, maybe hurt. Maybe dying for all I know. I must find him!"

Raefindan nodded, but said nothing. They put the buckets and blankets back where they belonged, and headed back to the inn for a hot breakfast and a day's work.

The morning's porridge held little appeal, but it was hot, and neither complained. Between mouthfulls, Raefindan said, "There's something else I don't understand."

"Mmmm?"

"Why do you think that taking a sponge bath out in the stables was more modest than taking a proper bath in the Inn?"

"What's a sponge?"

He sighed, and wearily stirred his porridge. She dropped the question.

"Sorry. In a proper Inn, it would hardly have been mannerly for a man to stand outside the door while I shouted about my dreams from the bath, would it? But in a stable yard, early in the morning, no one will care."

"Stables have ears too, " Raefindan said wryly. The barn had not been as empty as Mellonin had supposed, and he had been glad that he had stood guard for her. “Maybe this stable is different than the one you were used to, “ he replied. “Can we meet for lunch too? Maybe then we can get to the bottom of some of these dreams."

Mellonin agreed. They finished their porridge, and got to work.

[littlemanpoet]

Lunch time could not come soon enough for Raefindan. Melonnin's company was the only reprieve he had from the drudgery, which he was certain he was not used to, what ever iot was he had done wherever he had been before he lost his memory.

And then there were the dead ends of his own thoughts. On one hand there were the dreams of Imrazor and Mithrellas. On the other was his failed memory. His throat caught whenever he thougth of Mithrellas; there was a connection between his dream and his past, and he could not piece it together. Why can't I remember anything before I showed up here?

It was exasperating. Which is a word nobody around here uses. That was another thing. He had many words in his head that Mellonin and the others simply did not comprehend, always taking them at the face value meaning, which led to all kinds of strange misunderstandings. What's a sponge? He laughed to himself as he rubbed the same spot on the floor for what seemed the hundredth time.

At last it was time for lunch, and the guests had been served. Raefindan knew to wait for his lunch until after Mellonin had served all the guests. They sat at table eating what was left of the mid day cold roast and brown bread.

"You spoke of Amroth as restless and searching, of Nimrodel as despairing, and of Mellondu as confused." Raefindan paused to drink some water. "Imrazor's dreams are filled with wonder at having to wife an elf as beautiful as Mithrellas, who bears him children that take after her in beauty; but every dream ends in loss, for she has left him, and he is heartbroken. It is as if she has died, for she might as well have, since she wants nothing so much as the sea and her friend, Nimrodel. For me, Mellonin, it is like having something I was supposed to have had, and was denied. I do not know how that is. What I can tell you is that the loss in the end is bittersweet either way, for there is some recompense in the dreams, with Imrazor's children, and in my past, I think, in some way I cannot remember."

"Reckon pence? What is that? It sounds like counting money."

Raefindan shook his head. "I am sorry. I mean to say that it is like receiving payment for having suffered."

"Have you suffered, then, Raefindan?" Melonnin's tone was soft.

"So it would seem, though in what way I cannot say. If I could only gain my memory back!"

"Maybe a way will be found in the dreams."

"One can only hope."

"Did you ever recall who Jorje was?"

Raefindan laughed. "You remember that. By George, I think you've got it! No, I don't remember who George was. But I don't think it was important. It would be like saying, By the sword of the King! or something like that."

"Maybe this Jorje is the king where you come from."

"Why not?" Raefindan laughed again. Mellonin eyed him over her plate of food, wondering just how sane this young man was.

[Ransom]

After his somewhat tardy morning meal, Casimir rose and briskly marched out of the inn. He returned juggling two leather-bound books, several more message cases, and another case of ink in his thin arms. While some messengers regularly stopped at the Seventh Star to drop off letters or switch horses, this Gondorian had evidently elected to take the half an hour-long stroll to the nearest hamlet with a permanent mail post. Besides the obvious need for a trusted depository for his mail, the hour-long walk gave him time to collect his thoughts and enjoy the fresh air. Casimir had tried his hardest to sleep well last night, but had only achieved three or four hours of a fitful, half sleep.

The walker deposited his most recent acquisitions on another empty table and hurried up the stairwell to his room. One of the passing servants quickly read the titles on the book’s well-worn spines: Poisonous Beasts and Fauna from the libraries in House of Healing and last year’s Annals of the Judicial Courts of Gondor from the archives of the White Tower. This piece of information would undoubtedly find its way into the hands of the innkeeper before the sun set. No one knew much of this strange guest; save that he wore the garb of an officer or official and that he paid promptly in freshly minted silver coins. Casimir did not notice the servant’s clandestine espionage as he descended the stairs with his black book and his writing kit. He pushed the Annals, message containers, and writing implements to the side and set the two remaining books in front of him.

He opened the black book to his previous night’s labor and began to review his findings. Then, he began to browse through the book from the House of Healing, pausing to check the black ledger every few minutes. After a few more minutes of reading, he pulled out a fresh pot of ink and a feather. Casimir flipped to the back of his book and began to write:

Several of the people in question suffered vomiting, violent shaking, and general malaise prior to their demise. However, this does not assist in the classification of the poisons in question because of their widespread occurrence. Some of the ministers and masters lingered for several days before their demise, but some fell dead after a matter of minutes.

Hemlock causes a considerable amount of spit to form in the mouth. Followed by considerable shortness of breath and finally death by suffocation. It can be taken in to the body through wine and water. Perhaps one or two deaths over a year.

Water hemlock, on the other hand, starts agitation and general unwellness of the mind. The body begins to shake and flail, necessitating the restraint of the patient. The victim slips into a deep sleep before expiring. I believe we can attribute the death of the Minister of the Treasury to this.

Mandrake and deadly nightshade both cause their victims to become, as one loremaster put it, “red as a beet, dry as a bone, blind as a bat, mad as a hatter, and hot as a hare.” The healers seem to believe that this has caused the ills of a fair number of rich nobles. Several have expired from secondary infections or complications.

Several herbs can cause damage to the heart, mind, and stomach, but I do not have the expertise or evidence to determine if they have attributed to any poisonings.

[Imladris]

Ærosylle skipped up the path to the Seventh Star. A smile was on her face, dark brown hair, shot with copper, bounced from her shoulders, her grey eyes, flecked with green, sparkled, and she clutched a leather bag. Her ragged hem of her pale green dress flapped wildly around her dancing feet.

Flinging the door of the Inn open, she threw herself into a chair and began to trace the grains of the wooden table with her finger. Two others sat at it, conversing with one another: a man with red hair and a woman with brown. Two empty plates were stacked towards the edge of the table.

Ærosylle stared at the man’s red hair: it was so lovely, so bright, so tantalizingly foreign. She flicked her eyes away, and stared at the finger that continued to trace the grain in the wood. Her feet tapped nervously, as if she wanted to go somewhere but didn’t know where to go when, with an irritable sigh, she rummaged in the bag and pulled a piece of ill shaped paper flecked with green from the leather bag along with a goose feather quill pen and a bottle of ink. Her hand quivered as she dipped the feather into the ink and began to sketch. A deformed hag’s face with hollow cheeks and a warty nose appeared upon the parchment. With long spidery line, Ærosylle drew straggling grey hair that clung to the woman’s scalp like seaweed upon an anchor.

“What are you drawing?” asked the woman, peering at the paper.

Ærosylle’s pen paused and, one eyebrow higher than the other, mouth slightly open, and eyes wide, said “It’s a woman. An old woman. A fisherwoman who will live by the sea.” She glanced up and smiled at her and continued, all the while shading and colouring the woman’s face, “Did you know that we will all grow old? Our beautiful hair will turn grey, and maybe it will fall out and become bald which would, indeed, make us even uglier than this old crone….a wart would be better than no hair at all.” She reached out and touched the woman’s hair, and stared longingly at a the man’s red hair before she said, “Leave me be…she must be perfect or she won’t live at all.”

She bent low over the paper, muttering words as she drew a still ocean, flecked with foam, and on the horizon a ship with black sails. “Corsair…” she whispered. “What is your name,” she asked, glancing towards the redhaired man and the normal woman.

“I’m Mellonin and this is Raefindan,” the woman said. “And you are?”

“Ærosylle.“ Giggling, she threw her pen down and picked the portrait up, studying it with a broad smile. But it faded, and she bit her lip as she stared at the sketch, before finally shaking her head. To the left, surrounded by smooth grey stones, was a fireplace and in that fireplace a fire burned. Red flames, streaked with orange and glimmering with blue, licked hungrily around wooden logs and sparks exploded from the collapsing wood, meeting their doom on the stone of the hearth.

Her black pupils dilated as she walked towards the fire the paper in her hands. Mellonin and Raefindan followed her. She stood in front of the fire for a few minutes, enjoying the feeling of dying skin as the heat poached her shins. With a small smile and a sob, she let the sketch fall from her fingers and drift towards the flames. The sketch convulsed into a crumpled singed ball before disappearing amidst the glowing embers of the burnt log. The taint of burning ink contaminated the homely smoky smell.

“Why did you burn it?” Mellonin cried. “It was a wonderful sketch and that paper was wasted!”

“I can always make more,” Ærosylle said with a shrug. “But the old woman! The corsairs killed her -- didn’t you see the ship on Gondor’s horizon?” she asked. She folded her arms and stared at them, tapping her foot. “They killed her…so she couldn’t exist anymore. She was a casualty of war. I do hope you understand that she’s dead, and if you’re dead you can’t exist, which means…you don’t live anymore.

“I have never been to an Inn before, and it is absolutely lovely!” she said, brightly. “I don’t know why because it’s just like a house only bigger, but there seems to be an aura of excitement and adventure which is lacking at home,” she said as she skipped back towards the table with Mellonin and Raefindan. “But I am so tired…my legs are protesting against my journey,” she laughed. “I should have flown,” she added. Seeing the two lunch plates still sitting on the table, she gestured towards them and said, “You really shouldn’t stack them so and just shove them out of the way. You’ll hurt their feelings if you haven’t done it yet.”

[mark12_30]

Mellonin glanced at Raefindan, who returned the glance with tight lips, and made a sign with his hand.

"Well, " said Raefindan gently, "we certainly wouldn't want to offend the plates. Would we, Mellonin?" A sharp glance from Raefindan prevented Mellonin's surprised reply, and another, even sharper glance followed. Mellonin blinked; Raefindan was sometimes argumentative, but this was like a direct order. She bristled. A third sharp glance follwed, lips tighter this time.

"All right; all right, " she said, confused and not a little hurt, and with a puzzled glance at Raefindan she gathered the plates and took them to the kitchen.

"Where is your home, Ærosylle?" Raefindan asked. Her eyes grew glassy as she replied, "Not the seashore. No, not where the waves kiss the sand."

"How did you come here?" Raefindan persisted.

"I thought I told you. I flew, " she said.

"No, you said you should have flown but didn't, " he replied, and then realised that would only make things worse. Mellonin came back through the door.

"Well, I've soothed the poor plates' injured feelings, and they are happily on the shelf where they belong, " she replied through clenched teeth. "And now would you mind telling me--"

[Imladris]

“I’ll tell you anything you want,” said Ærosylle… “But first, did you make sure the plates were perfectly comfortable?” she asked, glancing towards the kitchen. At Mellonin’s nod, Ærosylle continued, “I think I lived in Gondor…I should have flown…this was such a long way away. Have you ever tried to fly?” she asked, leaning towards them, and rocking violently in her chair.

“No…people can’t fly,” said Mellonin.

“Just because we have wings doesn‘t mean we can‘t fly,” said Ærosylle. “I suppose you must be wondering why I would come to an inn that is so far away from my river weeds. That’s how I made the paper,” she added. “But I heard word of the Seventh Star Inn from some traveller. Have you ever stared at the stars at night?”

They nodded.

“I suppose I was rather hoping that this Inn would be a star, even though I knew it wouldn’t.” She laughed and laid another piece of paper onto the table, before she was rapidly sketching again. “The Corsairs shouldn’t have killed her,” she said as she scratched away. “As if she could have stood against them! I suppose that that just goes to show their cowardice.”

Underneath the quill pen swarthy men with rich armour leaped from their black sailed boats to the shore, attacking a squadron of Gondorian troops. Bodies were trampled to earth, one fell with an arrow in his throat; in the distance a Mumak appeared, lumbering its way to join the battle.

The pen dropped from Ærosylle’s fingers, and she glanced towards Raefindan and Mellonin. “So many people die,” she said. Her grey eyes dimmed with tears, and her voice became shrill. “Gondor couldn’t stand for long -- the king didn’t return soon enough.” She flipped the parchment so that the sketchy drawing was facing Mellonin and Raefindan. With a trembling finger she pointed to a fallen Gondorian soldier. His raven hair was a tangled mass, his cheeks were slashed, yet, through the veil of blood, there was a small, wistful smile haunting his lips. “My grandfather,” Ærosylle said, tapping the drawing with her finger as she rocked back and forth.

Twirling her hair, she looked at Mellonin and said, “What did you want me to tell you?”

[mark12_30]

"Er, well, " Mellonin began. And then she leaned over to Raefindan, and whispered, "What's the matter with her?"

Raefindan glared at her again, and whispered back through clenched teeth, "She's not well. Be gentle with her."

Mellonin's eyebrows went up, her mouth formed into an "O", and then she leaned closer still, and her lips formed the word moonstruck. Her eyes filled with fear.

Raefindan sighed.

"Is this what happened to my brother?"

Raefindan shrugged, and Mellonin calmed slightly, her eyes going from the girl to Raaefindan and back again, realizing that he knew more about this than she did.

"I don't know. Ærosylle, where did you live when you were a little girl?" Raefindan asked patiently.

"In the reeds."

"So... by the riverside?"

She nodded.

"Do you have family there, or friends?" Raefindan asked.

[Mithadan]

A soldier of Gondor entered the Inn, waving to the barkeep and some few whom he knew at the various and sundry tables. As always, the appearance of a man at arms in the Inn caused some to turn to watch the goings on in curiosity and others to turn away or shrink into the shadows. The soldier ignored the curious stares as well as those who shrank from his gaze and proceeded to the end of the bar where messages were sometimes posted upon the wall. Withdrawing a scroll from his pouch, he unrolled it and tacked it up on the wall. Then, seeing as he was now off duty, he sidled over to the bar and ordered a pint of ale. Behind him, some took the opportunity to hasten away while he was not looking. Others approached the bar in curiosity and examined the newly posted notice. It read:

The Seventh Star and the Lords and Council of Gondor hereby welcome and extend their courtesies, respects and congratulations to AYLWEN DREAMSONG who has been named on the roles posted in the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice her trade in the Realm of Gondor.

[mark12_30]

Mellonin smiled, and rose.

"Where is she? Where is the new bard?" she cried. "Surely she will join us here at the Inn. And if she can truly sing dreams, " Mellonin said, glancing at Raefindan who looked intrigued, "she must sing for us!"

Raefindan nodded, and then looked as if he had second thoughts. "Aylwen Dreamsong. Does her name mean that she sings about dreams-- or that when she sings, you dream? or that after you hear her sing, your dreams change? Or-- well, I have sad dreams enough; I could use some cheerful dreams. Dreams with a happy ending, maybe?"

Mellonin grew somber for a moment; her own dreams had been difficult too. Then she brightened. "Perhaps with the offer of a bottle of wine, she will choose cheerful songs, and we will dream cheerful dreams!"

Raefindan tried to feel optomistic. Mellonin was ready to hear the minstrel, and Raefindan hoped that she was right in her optomism about cheerful dreams.

Only-- where was the minstrel?

[piosenniel]

It had been a long, hot, disgruntling day at the dressmaker’s shop. Were it up to Piosenniel alone she would simply have pointed to a bolt of some acceptable material of an unobtrusive hue; given some vague instructions to the seamstress about not making it too tight or too long. And no, she would not be needing a cloak, slippers dyed, scarves, or any fussy items for the hair.

Or better yet, she would rather have pulled some gown from her wooden chest, shaken it out, and called it ‘good’.

But Gilwen had seen the invitation and mounted a protest. ‘It’s the King’s party, ammë! You have to have a pretty new dress.’ Little Cami nodded her head solemnly, wondering all the while if there would be cakes and other sweets. Eyes sparkling in anticipation, she piped up with a suggestion for a new bag to go with the outfit. ‘A pretty one . . . and big, too,’ she murmured at the end, thinking of the treats that might be brought home in it.

Even Isilmir had his thoughts on the occasion. ‘Father’s gone away. You’ll have to be the one to show up for our family. He’d want you to go and greet the King.’ He looked at his mother with a critical eye. ‘For a mother you still look good.’ Pio raised her brows at this assessment, but he continued on. ‘A pretty new dress would be even better.’ Cami and Gilwen nodded in complete agreement with their brother.

Pio had shaken her head and burst out in laughter at their concerted effort. ‘Alright, then,’ she had said. ‘Promise me there will be no more talk of pretty this and pretty that, and tomorrow we will all go into the city to see about making me suitably acceptable!’

~*~

Now they found themselves at the Seventh Star Inn. The discussions about material, the cajolings about ‘fashion’ and the innumerable measurings were done for the day. The seamstress had promised to have it ready for a fitting in a few day’s time, further promising that it would be the final fitting. The Elf had an exasperated look in her eye by the end of this tedious process. The dressmaker wisely chose not to discuss accessories, simply tucking away in the back of her mind what would be appropriate. She would present the entire outfit when Pio returned.

‘Look, ammë!’ Gilwen’s voice broke in on her thoughts as she sipped her cup of wine. Pio turned to see her daughter standing on a chair the three had carried to the wall at the end of the bar. ‘A story-teller . . . a new one has come into the city.’

Little Cami danced at the announcement, twirling around in delight as she looked up at her sister. She fixed her mother with a smile. ‘Oh, I love new stories! We can stay to hear one, can’t we?’ she asked clapping her hands. She looked about expectantly, wondering which one of the people at the Inn’s tables might be the new spinner of tales . . .

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

For the first time, Aylwen stepped into the Seventh Star. She was free to practice her trade in Gondor, and accepted to join the others that were of the distinct honor of being on the list of proper Gondorians. It was a fine and happy day for Aylwen, indeed, for she had spent many, many long months in Rohan. Aylwen knew her heart was still in Rohan, but such an honor as to be admitted pass into Gondor would not be overlooked by the young minstrel.

The young lady watched as people crowded around the message left by the soldier of Gondor. Some walked off, uninterested; others searched to see what face belonged to the name on the message.

"Perhaps with the offer of a bottle of wine, she will choose cheerful songs, and we will dream cheerful dreams!" Aylwen overheard someone say, and the new Gondorian chuckled at the suggestion. Aylwen walked over to the one who had spoken.

"I do not need wine to sing cheerful songs!" Aylwen said as greeting. "If it is music you wish to hear, and music to soothe your soul, you need only ask. Wine is a temporary comfort...a good tune rings forever!"

Aylwen pulled her set of panpipes from her knapsack, and piped a few notes before clearing her throat and singing the first song of dreams that came to her. In her clear alto voice, Aylwen sang for the woman and her companion:

"Rest, rest, sweet dreamers are sleeping,
Soon the dreams will come a-creeping.
Rest, rest, your peace will come soon,
Before the rising sun and setting moon.

Forget the Haven’s bells, forever ringing,
Listen only to the dream spirits singing.
Forget the pain of the day long past,
And I promise, you will find peace at last.

Rest, rest, dream of prosperity,
Crisp and clean in morning clarity.
Rest, rest, and loathe the hour of dawn,
When you must wake to dreams forgone.

Smile in your sleep, sweet little one,
And you will find joy ‘ere all is done.
Think of the times before there was war,
And you will sleep happily, forever more.

Rest, rest, my restless child fair,
Calm in dreaming without despair.
Rest, rest, and I promise you’ll see,
The world of dreams was made for thee."

[mark12_30]

Raefindan and Mellonin exchanged glances, and then Raefindan stepped back to the bar and gave Morien a coin. Morien handed him a bottle, which Raefindan frowned at, and pointed to another. Morien laughed, and Raefindan got the bottle he wanted.

He presented the wine to Aylwen with a deep and rather outlandish bow. Aylwen looked on, slightly startled, but thanked him.

"A sweet song indeed, Lady. Perhaps you'd teach it to my friend?" he said with a gesture towards Mellonin. Mellonin laughed, and quietly applauded. "I'd love to learn it. But if you sing it much more, you'll have to wake me from my dreams!"

Raefindan opened the bottle, and poured Aylwen a glass. "A sweet lullabye, and fitting for one with a name such as yours. Who taught you such mastery of your craft, lady Aylwen? Tell us your tale."

[Rimbaud]

Wheels moved within wheels, and even sickness passes. After some time in the Inn, Rimbaud finally descended to the common room and smiled at those present. He seemed paler and some of the laughter had left his eyes, but the grey tunic and the light blue sash were familiar.

He sat with some of the patrons for a while, talking lightly on the robust condition of the Inn. He spoke highly of the story-tellers of Gondor, who still circled the Inn. Rarely had the Innkeeper seen such healthy prose, he laughed.

He smiled at the newcomer to the List and bade her welcome to the Star. He did not know what she would make of this grey stranger with the tired eyes. Yet he made much of the new carving on the board, and shared a long pint and conversation with Mithadan, who slapped him on the back genially.

Rimbaud’s mind was not on these pleasantries, however. Much as he disliked it, he was again enmeshed in schemes of the City, and he was particularly guilty of using certain friends. There were strands running through the Inn, plans weaving together. He just wished he could see the pattern they wove.

Rising again, he adjusted his sash and winked at the barman. “Well,” he said quietly. “I’m back.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn applauded appreciatively when Aylwen finished her song. How fortunate that she should have come to the Inn at just the right time for meetings and greetings! She had bidden Mellonin and her companions farewell and welcomed the new story-teller. The Loremistress was pleased with double prospects of new tales for the archives of the White City. Now she stepped over to speak with Rimbaud, happy to see her friend on his feet again.

“I see that you have finally deigned to honour us with your presence!” she said lightly, with a hint of a curtsey and an impish smile.

“Indeed,” he replied, “I assume that you were bored without my enlivening influence! Tell me, how did your journey go? Did you collect many new tales for the city archives?”

“Yes, and you shall see and hear of them in time. But tell me first, what is it that causes your eyes to look inwards rather than seeing what is happening around you?” Estelyn queried. “You may be here in body, but your thoughts stray elsewhere.”

Her observation did not surprise Rimbaud; he was accustomed to the fact that she could see what others did not. “Come away from the bustle and the hearing ears here,” he suggested. “Then I can tell you some of what troubles my mind.”

[mark12_30]

Mellonin, Raefindan, Ravion and Aeron had finished packing. Ravion was deep in thought about the immanent departure. Mellonin and Raefindan went to find Morien.

"Well, all equipped and ready?" Morien said.

"Yes, sir, " replied Mellonin. "And please, sir, I wanted to thank you again for the advance. That was very generous of you. Thank you."

He studied her. She could be perceptive, or flighty, she could be thoughtful or absent-minded. "I assume you have spoken with your parents?" he said.

She shook her head. "We will pass by their house on the way out. I planned to stop in then."

"Mellonin, how can you be so foolish? Contact them now."

"Why?"

"How can they do anything to help you if you don't give them any notice?"

Her face fell. "They have so little. I do not want to burden them."

He snorted. "Foolish girl. If your corpse rots in the wilderness, They will have even less. Where do your parents live?"

"In the lowest circle."

"Tell Ravion where it is, and have them all meet you there."

Raefindan waved her out. She snatched up her cloak and pack, the shoulder-bag, and the awkward bundle of clothes and equipment that she was gong to change into; she would have to change in her parent's room. Hurriedly giving Ravion the directions to the room her parents lived in, she hurried to the door.

She turned with a sinking heart and looked back. In such a short time, the Inn had become a comfortable place. Morien in the end had shown her kindness behind his gruff exterior. And there were so many others to whom she wished she had time to say farewell. Her eyes fell on Estelyn, who was now talking to the Inn owner, and she fervently wished her well.

Raefindan waved her out again, and she turned and left the Inn.

[mark12_30]

The mouse emerged cautiously from his hole near the fireplace, and peered around the corner. Nose twitching, he sat up, eyeing the elf-lady with her children. She was enjoying the dreamy music sung by the new bard.

The mouse's nose twitched again, and his ears went forward. Her lively children were fun to watch. And the mouse was happy to see the elf-lady here at the inn.

Happy Birthday, elf-lady.

[Imladris]

Ærosylle was about to reply to Mellonin's question when a newcomer came to the Inn. She seemed to be a minstrel of sorts and sang a song of dreams. Dreams are sweeter than our world when they are pleasant. But what if the dream was bad? Then the dreamer couldn't find peace and would not loathe the hour of dawn. Ærosylle shuddered. The bad dreams had a tendancy to haunt one's memory as well; good dreams fled all too swiftly.

Ærosylle tapped the table with her pen as she saw the various welcome the poet -- singer. Leaning down, she took another piece of deformed paper and smoothed it on the table. Looking closely at the girl, she began to draw her in the midst of a mighty forest. It was a dark forest -- a forest full of dreams. Bright dreams in the form of elves and dark dreams in the guise of goblins.

The orcs crouched in the underbrush, peered around the tree trunks, and some of the smaller ones dangled from the branches. The elves sang in the tree tops, plucked their harps, and some danced around the singer.

Ærosylle dropped her pen, and scrutinized it. She blew on it softly, drying the ink so it wouldn't smudge if a wayward hand happened to touch it. Rising, she crept towards the singer and murmured, "This is for you."

She stepped back quickly and looked for Mellonin. But she had left with the red haired man and some others. Ærosylle saw them stride down the path and waved at them through the window.

[Bêthberry]

The haunting melody of Aywlen Dreamsong's panpipes drifted up the wooden staircase and through the floorboards into the Innkeeper's room. The echoing notes were an eerie reminder of the eyes and ears downstairs, as if even here in Rimbaud's private rooms he could be traced and followed.

Not followed perhaps, but observed in passing. When he and the LoreMistress had left the great hall, their departure together had been noted. They could not escape that, nor, indeed, had they tried.

Yet both were brought up short when they entered a room they had expected to be empty to find a figure in dark brown cloak standing before the fire.

The Loremistress spoke up first, curtly and with authority ringing in her calm tones, "What business have you here?"

The Innkeeper looked at her, his tired eyes for once showing some interest, and raised his hand silently. He recognised the figure that had stood watch over him for many days.

She turned and threw off the hood, smiling at the Loremistress.

"You did not expect me here, old friend, but here I am," she spoke quietly. "And I am most pleased to see you looking well, better than the Innkeeper here."

At that moment, they were interrupted by the arrival of a large falcon who flew through the slightly opened, shuttered window, a small twig in its beak. Wyrd landed on the worn wooden desk, dropping the twig, his head turning with sharp, penetrating glances to the three humans before stopping to stare at the Innkeeper.

[mark12_30]

Outside the Inn doorway three Gondorians lounged against the moonlit wall, all well but plainly groomed and dressed, all boys on the verge of manhood. Typical grey eyes and dark hair framed their laughter, and their jests were no less gleeful for their lack of ribaldry. All three sparkled with camraderie and deep affection; their history as a threesome went back to before they could crawl.

"Should he not be here by now?"

"He said sunset, and the sky is dark."

"Late. He moves with the speed of the silver-haired."

"What shall we ask him for?"

"War stories."

"Dance tunes."

"Love songs!"

"Dreamer!" "Hopeful!"

"I can give you all three, " said a new voice. He was three years older than the others, a Gondorian, similarly dressed, but dusty and smudged.

"There you are!" "Here he is!" "Well met!" "You are well, are you not?" "Shall we go inside?" They embraced him in turn.

"Yes. My day has been long and dry. Who will buy the first round?" said the new arrival.

"You're the wealthy traveller!"

"Yes, and I've spent it all, " he laughed. The four young men entered the Inn.

[mark12_30]

The four young men went to the bar, ordered some mild ale, and took their drinks to a table. Morien walked past them, and grunted a greeting, followed by a laugh. "Haven't seen the Three Trees here for quite a while, Hîriest! You come home, and I gain not one customer, but four."

The dusty newcomer grinned at the others. "Your reputation still proceeds you."

"You are one of us yourself!"

"He said Three Trees. Not four."

"You have been gone a whole year. It took half that time til they renamed us."

"What did they call you at first?"

The three younger men exchanged glances. "Different things."

"What things?"

"Four Trees Short One."

"Four Trees Down to Three."

"The Emptying Grove."

Hîriest began to chuckle.

"Four Trees, One Gone."

"Four Trees but One Was An Ent."

Hîriest laughed out loud.

Morien walked past. "My own favorite was, Four Trees But One Took A Wrong Turn."

"I did not take a wrong turn, " objected Hîriest.

"Well, " said Morien, "I still pride myself on being able to tell them apart."

"Really."

Morien nodded.

"Name us, then!"

Morien set down his tray, and cleared his throat. Going around the table from Hîriest's left hand, he pointed. "Doroninn. Gaerbrethil. Calentathar."

All Four Trees shared a smile.

Morien looked from one to the next. "Am I right?"

They laughed. "No."

Morien scowled, and tried again. "Gaerbrethil. Doroninn. Calentathar."

"Try again!"

Morien thought for several moments. "Calentathar. Gaerbrethil. Doroninn."

More laughter gave him his answer, and he snorted in defeat. "Tell me, then!"

"Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, Doroninn!"

"Bah. You trade names each week!"

"Some so accuse us."

Morien stalked off, chuckling.

The boys quieted, and then looked to Hîriest. "So what will your new name be? You can no longer be "Lord of the Wish", for your wish came true, and you travelled beyond Gondor."

"I don't mind my name."

"Oh, but we must give you a new one!"

"Lord of the Horizon!"

Hîriest coughed into his ale.

"Far-Flung Storm!"

"Don't be ridiculous, " Hîriest said.

"Lord of the Rangers?"

Hîriest sighed. "What is wrong with Alagothôn?"

"You cannot be a tree anymore; you have torn up your roots. It no longer suits you."

"Then call me harper, " said Hîriest.

"Harper?"

"That's all? Just... Harper?"

"Too plain!"

Hîriest sat back and waved for another ale. "There is no shame in being plain. Or simple."

Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, and Doroninn exchanged skeptical glances.

"I have been called 'Harper' in many a town. I have gotten used to it. Harper... Talagand... Nandaro..."

The Three Trees were silent, and the signals that passed between them would have puzzled any but Hîriest. He knew they had agreed.

Morien arrived with another ale, and the talk turned to other matters.

[mark12_30]

Hîriest and the Three Trees spent most of the day swapping tales and songs. Hîriest had collected plenty during his year away, and he sang til he was hoarse. Each of the three (Oak, Beech, Willow) insisted on learning a different song, and they were merciless with Hîriest til they knew all the verses cold. By nightfall Hîriest was reduced to sign language and was asking for honey in all of his drinks.

Morien laughed at him. "Come home to your Grove, only to die there? Some friends."

Hîriest shook his head, and hoarsely whispered, "If I die of singing too much, it will not be here. I will be on the road again come dawn."

"What!" "You cannot mean it!" "You just arrived!"

Hîriest raised his last glass. "Nonetheless, I must depart. I will return as soon as I may. There is a large celebration in a far country in the West. I will meet a friend along the way."

"What friend?" asked Beech.

"His name is LinGalad. He is a Mirkwood elf. We sang much together when I visited there. He will meet me at Bree."

"And you leave in the morning?"

"I must, " said Hîriest, giving Willow a shove. "Or I will have no voice left." He finished his drink, and they walked out into the night.

[mark12_30]

Dusty and dirty, Hîriest stumbled into the Inn. Morien looked up, grunted as if Hîriest hadn't left, and poured him an ale without asking. Handing it to him, he said, "Welcome back."

Hîriest nodded. "Thank you. I see the Three Trees are here already."

"Hail!" called Beech from a far table. Willow waved, and Oak thumped the table.

Hîriest nodded, and began making his way across. Then he stopped, and looked around. "I don't see him."

"Don't see who?"

Hîriest shrugged. "The fence-climber. The one who trespassed in the dead of night in a graveyard to pay his respects at the grave of a well-loved Loremaster. Well, when he comes by, Morien, give him an ale and say Happy Birthday for us." He fished for a coin, and put it on the bar.

[mark12_30]

"Hîriest, " murmured Willow, "Did you forget something?"

"Did I?" replied Hîriest, blinking.

"I think so, " said Oak. "You could make the lame excuse that she's done quite a bit of travelling lately; but it would hardly fit, since she was last seen here?"

"She was?"

"Yes, she was, " replied Beech.

Hîriest ran a hand across his forehead. "You could tell me."

"Her birthday was the day before yesterday."

Hîriest slumped in his chair, chin in hand. "So I am once again revealed as absentminded."

"Or at least slow on the uptake, " chuckled Beech.

"Well, what do we do now?"

"We drink her health. Are you getting too old for this sort of thing?" said Oak.

"Rascal," replied Hîriest.

"Perhaps, " said Willow.

They raised their mugs. "To the wandering Inkeeper; may her search end in finding, her longings end in joy, and may her journey end safely at Home."

[piosenniel]

A ragged rider from parts west pulls on the reins of her horse, bringing it to a halt in front of the Seventh Star Inn. Two square nails and a few thumps of her rusty hammer later, a smudged notice is firmly affixed to the Inn door:

~*~

X---X Notice of New RPG Opening X---X

Durelin invites you to look at the discussion thread for Bloodstained Elanor.

Click HERE (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?t=10735) to view it.

The Discussion Thread for this RPG will open to take on players on June 5th.

Players already in the game are: Amanaduial the archer, Arvedui III, Aylwen Dreamsong, Fordim Hedgethistle, and, of course, Durelin.

~*~

‘Well, Bartleby,’ the rider said, adjusting the cinches on the saddle. ‘Back to Eriador, eh?’ She flipped the dilapidated equus a last ginger nut and mounted up.

With a small snort and a somewhat subdued alacrity the horse ambled down the path, heading northwest . . .

[Mithadan]

Morien bustled into the Inn, bearing two sacks of flour on his shoulders. After depositing them by the kitchen door he turned toward the bar and withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket which he used to wipe the sweat from his brows. Even as he turned away, a grey-clad server issued from the kitchen and almost noiselessly lifted the sacks and carried them through the kitchen door.

Sitting at the bar, Morien sighed as a tall mug of ale appeared before him. He drained half of it in a single draught before he placed it back down on the burnished wood. He did not have to look to know that the bar was being wiped as he turned away and the mug was being placed upon a coaster by one of the servitors. At that moment Rimbaud entered. Morien waved him over with a smile.

Still a bit too thin, Morien thought as Rimbaud approached the larger, bearded man. That'll change soon enough though. He's certainly been through enough. "Have you heard when the shipment of Dorwinion Red will arrive?" asked Rimbaud. Morien, or Blacky as he was better known, shook his head. "The traders are a week and more overdue," he answered. "I hope naught's gone awry. I've heard tell of trouble with the Easterlings, again."

Rimbaud scowled, then shrugged. "I'm sure it will arrive soon enough, accompanied by a passle of excuses," the Innkeeper replied. "And what news from the upper circles of the city?"

Morien slapped a hand on his forehead. "Oh, sorry!" he cried. "One thing drives out another as they say. I've a message for you! Should've given it to you before I cooled my throat and numbed my head!"

He handed a scroll over to Rimbaud, who broke the seal, unrolled it and read its contents. A smile appeared upon his face and he stood and walked to the end of the bar, where he posted the scroll upon the wall. "An important announcement!" he cried with a flourish. The guests and regulars rose and crowded about to read the words printed upon the parchment in bold letters. The announcement read as follows:

The Seventh Star and the Lords and Council of Gondor hereby welcome and extend their courtesies, respects and congratulations to CUTHALION who has been named on the roles posted in the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice his trade in the Realm of Gondor.

[mark12_30]

Hîriest, Oak, Willow, and Beech watched as the scroll was tacked up. Hîriest beamed. "Well, lads, perhaps you can wring tunes out of him for a day, and give my voice a rest?"

"Is it mercy you seek?" laughed Oak.

"I can hope, " Hîriest replied. "Whether he sing or no, his tales will be most welcome."

[Nurumaiel]

The door opened softly and a man not old yet not very young stepped in. His face was fair to look upon, his eyes clear and grey, and his hair dark. It was clear that he was of Gondor. He was tall and the way he stood gave the impression of great nobility. His clothing was rich, black in color with a white tree embroidered richly upon it. His eyes looked over the room with a profoud wisdom as well as kindness. He turned to the door, opening it wider, smiling fondly as a young woman stepped in. She was fair to look upon even as he was. Her hair fell down her shoulders in a golden stream, complementing his darker features. At a glance one would suppose she was Rohirric, and indeed she was. While her face was fair she was not slender, but rather large.

The man took her arm and led her to the nearest table, pulling out a chair and gently helping her to sit down. She sat with easy grace, smiling at the man and thanking him. He sat down opposite her and slid his figures over the wood of the table. "Oft have I heard of The Seventh Star spoken, but I have not yet let my wandering steps find its way to the threshold," he said. "I fear I have not chosen a good day to at last see what I have heard spoken. Has the journey wearied you, Ceolwyn?"

Her eyes shone with love and she shook her head, and she said nothing. Her long fingers played with the embroideries on her dress and she gazed about her in curiosity. She was clad in a very loose-fitting dress of green, the shade of the green that could be found on the banners of Rohan that bore the emblem of the white horse. He watched her with a fond little smile and then reached out and took her hand. "Little child, stop playing," he said, laughing softly. Her eyes met his and she smiled. "Do you desire anything to eat?" She shook her head again, still silent. He did not release her hand but studied the bright ring upon her finger. "That's a pretty little trinket," he said. "Where did you get it?" Again she said nothing but merely gazed into his eyes, the expression on her face clearly saying that he knew where she had received it. He nodded. "The ring your brother gave to you when you were a little girl." She nodded.

A silence fell between them, or rather the man fell silent, for the woman had not spoken yet. He stared at the far wall of the room, deep in thought, and she continued to look into his face. Then he looked at her again. "What name?" he questioned. She dropped her eyes and blushed modestly and said nothing. He put one hand to his chin and tapped it thoughtfully. "A Rohirric name?" She nodded. He continued in his thoughts. "For a boy Cyneric perhaps?" A bright smile came to her face and again she nodded. "For a girl you must choose the name," he urged her.

She studied his hand holding her own. She seemed to hesitate before speaking, and then she said, "Eahlwyn."

"You have been planning that name for many a month, have you not?" He laughed when she nodded. "Little silent one, why did your mother not name you for the way you speak... hardly at all?" He increased the pressure on her hand and then released it. "That is what first drew me to you, quiet one... your silence. The other young girls, all laughing and talking with hardly a pause for breath, and you sitting gazing at the sky. And when I spoke to you, you spoke to me just enough to be courteous and no more. How sweet these past two years have been since I took you as my wife." Still she said nothing though her eyes shone brightly. "And our happiness will soon be completed when the little one comes... I eagerly await the day."

She spoke once again, a single word. "Soon," she said.

[Cuthalion]

A tall Elf stopped before the door of The Seventh Star and rested his hand on it before opening it. It had been a long hard road for him and, while the journey was not yet over, he decided to stop and rest awhile. He squinted as he kicked the dust from his boots, looking to see if he could discern any familiar faces, but it seemed that no one he had met in his travels happened to be here at the moment.

He walked over to the bar and removed his bow and quiver from their accustomed place on his back so that he could sit and relax in comfort. A pint of ale appeared and he drank thirstily, grateful for the cool sensation in his throat. With a sigh, the Elf pushed it away, having drained it dry in no time. He then leaned back, with his elbows on the bar and watched what appeared to be a newly arrived family closely. Cuthalion had never been one who made much over children and so he was careful not to attract their attention.

Idly, his thoughts wandered to what had brought him here. A chance meeting in another Inn almost 2 years ago, the writing of a saga and an invitation to commune with the spirits in this place. He looked forward to whatever lay ahead, as he always did, with an open mind and enormous curiosity. He grinned as a second pint found its way to a spot near his elbow. "I think I'm going to like it here." he said to no one in particular.

[mark12_30]

Hîriest and Oak wandered over to greet the elf, both thinking it odd that an elf should drink ale instead of wine, but neither mentioning it. "Greetings, fair one. Welcome to Minas Tirith. I am Hîriest, and this my friend Doronnin, or Oak as he is known."

The elf turned twinkling eyes on the two men, and replied, "Thank you, Oak, and Lord of the Wish." He raised his mug.

"You'll sing for us, won't you?" asked Oak.

"My friend is the very soul of patience," said Hîriest.

While Hiriest and Doronnin spoke with the elf, Willow and Beech came near the Gondorian man and the Rohirric woman. "Welcome to the Seventh Star, " said Willow. "Well met. Whence came ye?" asked Beech. "Are ye weary?" asked Willow.

The man and woman glanced at each other.

Willow paused. "Forgive me. I am Calentathar, and this is Gaerbrethil."

[Cuthalion]

"A song? Ah, my friend, there you have the better of me, for I count myself no Bard. Now, should you be in need of a tale...!" Hiriest looked at him with interest as the Elf sat himself down and began to speak...

" In all the wide world you'll hear tales of woe and well-wishing, of triumph and despair, and most especially that of love and loss. However... Few there are which contain none of the afore-mentioned! This is a tale of utter and complete foolishness, the story of a young Dragon's first venture into the Wild!

Once...many an Age ago, there lived a wily she-Dragon. She it was who let herself be wooed and won by the strongest male of Melkor's brood. Little did he know, that upon seeing her tiny hatchlings for the first time, she would become insanely protective...to the point of madness! Thus it was that one night she stole away from their lair, spiriting her young to a place in the East, where she thought no one could ever trace them... in short, her Dragonish brain had finally cracked...In my opinion, I feel it was her odd penchant for pickled Orc feet!

The poor male died of heart-break and the she-Dragon (the Eol of her kind) kept a watchful eye on her younglings and raised them up on horrid stories of Mad Elves and Evil-eyed Warriors, raising them on foul meats and avocados...except for one. One tiny male was exceptionally cunning and realising his dam for the lunatic she was,(the avocado being the deciding factor) he decided to get while the getting was good. Once she was asleep, with her young clamped in her claws, he eeled his way out from under his usual spot under her armpit...once able to breathe again, he fled, never once looking back. He went on to become a very successful Champion of the Small and Meek, Defender of Vegetarians everywhere...just to spite his dam. To sum up...if you love something, let it go...before it decides to rebel and eat you!"

[Nurumaiel]

Ceolwyn seemed a bit confused at the volley of questions but nevertheless good-natured as she smiled, and as the two questioners introduced themselves the Gondorian man stood and bowed. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance," he said. "My name is Nardon and this is Ceolwyn, my wife." She continued to smile at them and said nothing, but gave them a nod in greeting. Nardon paused and then gestured for the two newcomers to sit. They smiled and accepted his offer politely.

"I will not beseech you repeat your former questions," he said. "I recall them perfectly and I will merely answer them now. I come from this fair land of Gondor, and not far from where this inn stands now. I was born here and raised here but have not lived here all my life. My wife is of Rohan though she has lived in Gondor these past two years."

"And are you weary?" asked Calentathar

Nardon shook his head but glanced at his wife, who made no move to either say 'yes' or 'no' but merely smiled in an expectant way at her husband, as if she wanted him to speak for her. He sighed as he returned his gaze to Calentathar. He had hoped his wife would answer the question for she was skilled at phrasing delicate manners in a way that was not improper. Despite the many cries of praise of his way with words he had heard in his life, he felt clumsy with words, the sly little things. Often he knew in mind and heart what to say but the words would slip away from him so he could not say it.

"She is a little weary," he said, feeling more than a little odd that he must speak for her, but then he had grown accustomed to it, "though we have not travelled very far. However it is to be expected..... in her condition."

[mark12_30]

Calentathar's eyes grew wide. "Allow me to congratulate you, lady, and wish you continued good health." He exchanged uneasy glances with Gaerbrethil, and carefully studied Ceolwyn. "The wait-staff here is very perceptive, my lady, and will meet your needs. But if you would prefer something mild, such as salted oat-cake, I would be happy to find you some."

Gaerbrethil nodded in agreement, and waited breathlessly for Ceolwyn's answer.

At another table, Hîriest chuckled quietly for quite some time. "Well told, friend."

Oak frowned. "What is an avocado?"

Hîriest let a sinister light into his eyes, and raised one eyebrow just a little. "It has knobbly dark skin," he said. "Inside it is pale oily green... with a great slimy stone inside."

Oak shuddered, and gazed at the elf with a new respect.

[Nurumaiel]

Ceolwyn glanced at her husband but he smiled teasingly, shaking his head. He would let her answer for herself this time. The light in her eyes faded; she gazed imploringly at him and he almost gave in, but steeled himself and again shook his head. She looked to Calentathar and blushed slightly when she realized her reluctance to speak might have been regarded as impolite. "I thank you," she said, her voice quiet, "but I am not hungry at the moment." She stopped and seemed relieved that she need not speak more, but became decidedly uneasy when she realize courtesy prompted her to continue. "And I thank you for your congratulations," she said. "I... I am glad you have guessed what my condition is, for it is a difficult subject to speak of... being... being with child, I mean." The color in her cheeks mounted. "One doesn't like to speak of it merely because it might not be considered proper, though the joy is great."

Nardon smiled at her before addressing their 'guests.' "Consider yourselves flattered, my friends," he said. "It is not often my wife will speak in such length to those she just barely knows. Indeed, it is not often she will speak, not even to me, her husband." He could not say why. She had always been so quiet and there had never been too much need for her to talk. He had always understood the little gestures of her hands, the way she smiled, the expression in her eyes. She spoke through those things and rarely through her words. When she did speak to him she would say beautiful things, and he had little doubt that that was way she hardly ever did speak. Her thoughts were beautiful and to speak interrupted them. He knew what she dreamed of every day. The child. She had wept for days with joy when she had learned she was to bear a child, though she had spoken hardly at all. What tender smiles had lingered on her face as she had sewn the little clothes the child would wear, and what fondness was in her voice when he heard her murmuring the names she liked best for the child. 'The joy was great.' She had spoken her heart in those simple words.

"Ah, friends," he said, pulling himself from his reverie, "I lose myself to you in my thoughts. You have graciously offered my wife something to eat and she has denied. Perhaps I might offer to buy you a meal, or at least a drink. I would not lack in the generosity that you possess. It is my delight to give something to you. What would you have?"

[Rimbaud]

And the season turned into another one, and he healed slowly. The Inn took much of his time as he was prevented from thought of adventure by mundane details. Yet still he conversed with his allies, still they kept watch.

He strengthened his eyes and ears in the City gradually, and certain people who may have forgotten his touch became aware again that games were afoot.

The Innkeeper was restless, yet his friends bade him steady. Estelyn allowed him some brief practise with the sword, yet they were of too high a skill to spar for long, and he abhorred the use of the thing in any case. He busied himself cleaning out the stables and pestering Olaf.

Still, when the summer came, a glint in the Innkeepers eye told his closest that business would soon have to be attended.

**************

Stories unfolded and flowered in the Inn, and Rimbaud was pleased that his convalescence allowed him some time to listen to the tales. But the call had gone out, and he had only to wait for the allies to come, before action would take place.

[mark12_30]

In the shadows by the fireplace, a nose twitched and wiskers quivered. Many crumbs had fallen, and the mouse was sleek, though restless at times. Shadows flickered on the walls, and memories flickered in the old room even as the grey-clad servants went noiselessly about their business.

The common room would empty soon, and the mouse planned his evening's trek; the old sea-captain had dropped plenty of crumbs and spilled some beer.

[mark12_30]

The door opened, and a very small figure entered. He looked around at the dark room, quiet and rather dusty, and noted the movements of the nearly-invisible wait-staff.

He climbed into a chair, and one of the waiters approached him, sparing a puzzled glance that a halfling would have strayed into the land of Gondor.

"Wine, please," said the hobbit.

The wine appeared quietly, and the hobbit took the glass and raised it.

"Dear Mister Frodo, and old Mister Bilbo-- both mighty in deed, skilful with pen and song. Happy birthday."

He slowly sipped the wine.

[Bêthberry]

OOC

Hail Gondorians! Please check out Fordim Hedgethistle's new game, Shadow of the West (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?t=11345).

It is a game of intrigue set in the Second Age and exploring the creation of the Nazgul. Now, how did Rohan come to be the forum where the dark side is explored?

I've got dibs on the Queen. :D

Bethberry

[Rimbaud]

In the long-disused old dining room of the Seventh Star, dust lay calmly and unpeturbed. The brash new living room, some three times the size was sufficient for even a great many guests, and the Star had in any case been quieter of late.

Still, outside the locked door of the room, feet padded and thumped, voices called and intrigues played their melodies throughout.

In the top corner of the room, at the far end from the door on the wall nearest the fireplace, a blue velvet wall hanging was starting to come away from the wall. Dust fell from its curled blue edge, sparkling and glinting in the sunlight as it fell. The light blinked in through dusty windows, suffusing the room rich tans and ochres.

The wall hanging slipped a little more, and if there had been anyone to see, a very curious thing happened.

A small paper scroll slipped out from behind the hanging and drifted, unfurling as it fell through the glittering dust to the floor. Its thick papyrus stretching itself out as it fell, it bagan to rotate and swell.

Before it reached the floor, the parchment had calmly and unobtrusively resolved itself into a familiar form in grey and blue. The figure, of medium height and slim build, straightened the odd blue sash that flowed from right-hand shoulder to meet a thinner blue belt at the waist and made silently for the door. Small handfuls of dust puffed into the air from his soft footsteps.

Although he appeared to use no key, merely to stroke the handle, the lock clicked, and the thick wooden door swung towards the grey figure, as noiselessly as if it had been well-oiled in the years since it's last apparent use.

The figure paused in the hall, head turning, then flitted towards the sound and noise of the common room double doors at the end of the hall.

Slipping unobserved through the crack in the doors, the figure skirted the small gathering of drinkers at the centre tables to come to a standstill before a large wall-mounted oak board, upon which golden characters were elegantly scribed. A list of names it was, headed by a notice proclaiming their valiance.

Removing a shadowed something from within his tunic, the figure acted swiftly and quietly, unseen by the room's other occupants, who paid no heed, preferring the crackle of the fire and the ministrations of the barkeeps. Yet, although no sound was made, and although none see the figure leave as silently as it had come, a new name stood in letters on the board; carved as if it had ever been there, stood the name Fordim Hedgethistle.

The business of the Inn paused as people came to their realisations, and paused again as drinks were raised to the newest name on the List; the door to the fogotten dining room remained closed and seemingly undisturbed as always.

[piosenniel]

Pio paused in her game of darts as the familiar figure passed by. ‘Now what’s the old trout up to?’ she wondered. Reaching for her everpresent mug of stout, she ambled over to the iron plaque. Her pink tinged computer glasses rested lightly on the top of her head as she leaned in to see the bright, new name.

‘Fordim Hedgethistle! Well, well . . .’

Turning, she lifted her glass in salute, thinking that perhaps he was waiting in the shadows. ‘Welcome, and well done! Come have a glass!’ she called out, her grey eyes narrowing as she looked about the dim lit room.


Kudos, Fordim!
http://forum.barrowdowns.com/ubb/icons/icon13.gif

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The odd, ragtag crew of folk that approached the Gate of Minas Tirith that morning drew the stares of all who beheld it. At the front of the column there marched a furious looking Dwarf with a mighty axe flung across his shoulder, upon which was carved in the strange runes of the Dwarves the name of Haenir. Behind him there came as odd a pair of Men as any in that city – which was used to wonders – had seen. The dark man was tall and sharp, with deep grey eyes and a stern aspect. Some about the walls recognised him and called out “Run and tell the King that his kinsman Tar-Corondir has returned!” Others looked not at the Black Numenorean King, but at his companion the handsome and still boyish Hearpwine: “The Bard of Rohan has come! The Bard of Rohan!” arose from all quarters, as they anticipated with glee the songs that he would sing for them. There was a tall Elf as well, and those who were visiting the City from the Golden Woods recognised the renowned warrior Ambarturion One-Hand, and they wondered to see him so far removed from the land of Lorien.

But the surprise of the people at these appearances was as nothing when the party entered the gates. For accompanying the noble party of Dwarf, Elf and Men were other, more curious figures. There was an aged Hobbit mounted upon a donkey. The Halfling gazed sourly at the buildings about him as though wishing he were anywhere else. To repeated inquiries he replied that his name was Fordogrim Chubb, and no, he was no relation to Frodo, Meriadoc, Peregrine or Samwise, whoever they might be, and he had no wish to be known to them as from the sound of things they were crack-brained folk who left their own land for Adventures of which he wanted no part.

Sulking along behind Mister Chubb was a ragged figure of a Man in tattered clothes. He had a glum aspect but there hung about his eyes a hard-forged determination, and those who looked into those eyes knew that he was capable of great strength beyond his narrow frame. He spoke with the accents of Mordor, to their great consternation, and had the uncouth name of Grash.

Most harrowing of all to those who beheld the party was the dark figure of nightmare who followed at the end of the column upon a great black horse. A rumour of terror came before him and many fled before the form of Khamul, but he looked neither left nor right and seemed unaware of the consternation he caused.

The company wound its way through the streets, drawing ever greater crowds, until they arrived at the door of the Seventh Star. There they paused, and a strange quiet seemed to descend upon them all. They looked at one another for a second and then, strangely, they all moved toward the door at once. And whether it was that they somehow grew smaller, or that the door loomed up larger than before, they seemed to pass through it at once, and as they passed through it they seemed to disappear, or – rather – to become one. In the space between the batting of an eyelash the large party which had entered the doorway was replaced by the single, unassuming form of a simple man exiting that same doorway.

After the marvels they had beheld, he was a disappointing sight to those who had gathered to welcome him, and some sighed and turned away, while others clucked their tongues and returned to their beverages. Fordim Hedgethistle nervously ran his hand through his hair to push it out of his eyes before sneaking a peak at the sign which had been altered to include his name. He allowed himself a quick flush of success and pride before moving to the bar and ordering a pint of their best ale. Taking a deep quaff he turned and said to the eminences who were gathered in this place:

“Cheers!”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Loremistress of Minas Tirith had her sources, and as always Estelyn's connections with the host of the "Seventh Star" made her privy to the news sooner than most others knew of it. Pausing only to gather a stack of blank parchments, her favourite pen, and a goodly supply of ink, she hurried over to the Inn. Impetuously, she pushed open the door to the common room, which had begun to fill satisfactorily.

She waved to the keeper of the drinks, who looked over and called out, "The usual, Princess?"

"No", she smiled, "this is a special occasion and calls for something special! Do you have a good bottle of that wonderfully bubbly wine in your cellar?"

He nodded and disappeared, only to reappear a few moments later with a dusty, promising-looking bottle in his hand. He wiped it clean, then carefully and steadily pulled out the cork with an attention-getting "plop!" Fordim was not the only one who turned around to investigate the source of the sound, but he was the first to whom she waved.

"Come on over and have a glass!" she said invitingly. "This is your party!" And the bottle must have had some Faery quality to it, for it did not become empty, no matter how many glasses were filled.

Yet, ever mindful of her responsibility to the White City's Library, she kept her writing materials in readiness and listened for new stories by the newcomer. Rumour had it that he often asked for people's opinions, keeping tally of the results, but she was sure that there were many good tales to be had if she listened for awhile.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Looking down out of the dust-covered window of the room which she had rented, but whose rent the disused Inn had long since failed to collect, Aman watched the gates of Minas Tirith almost disinterestedly, her head leaning against the window frame as if she was dozing off, motionless as she was: why, she could have been there forever, a forgotten rag doll in the attic. But as the sounds of laughter, then of cheers, began to waft up from the streets, the woman's green eyes brightened somewhat and, as the cheers grew in volume and confidence, the young woman slowly raised her head from where it had rested. Finally, in the streets below, she saw the procession draw up and, as the first of two men drew into sight behind a dwarf she did not recognise, Aman's face cracked slowly into a wide smile. Like that rag-doll puppet now come alive, she leapt from the window seat, running out of the door and pounding down the corridor to the stairs, dust flying up in her wake.

"Cheers!"

As Fordim took a pull of his drink and uttered that single word, Aman gave a delighted laugh from the balcony above, and swept an overdone, elegant bow down at him. "Long have we waited for you to enter these doors, Fordim! Welcome Snaveling, Hearpwine, Haerin, Grash, Ambarturion and..." she trailed off slightly, eyeing the shadow-cloaked witch-king suspiciously, a figure whom she had come into conflict with more than once. Then she shrugged. "Welcome all, to the Seventh Star, and to Gondor!"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim blushed from the unexpected attentions of such luminaries. Returning Aman's bow with his own clumsy attempt (he saw her politely hide her snicker) he thanked her for the welcome. "It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude for my admission to this realm, my lady. Were it not for you and the wondrous climes of the Green Dragon Inn I would not have stayed at the Downs for very long. But I must not forget Pio the Inestimable either, nor Child, who also made gaming there so wondrous and rewarding. And lest I be admonished by the Lady Bethberry (whose eye I can see glittering already) and Mistress Aylwen I hasten to add that my time in Rohan was as rewarding as it was challenging. But on to new matters!

"I have, for a time, been wondering about the possibility of bringing a new type of game to the RPG forums of this place. Over in the Mirth Thread there has been an ongoing series of adventures in which vailiant villagers conted with werewolves -- I have thought that such a story might make for an interesting RPG...

"It may be immodest of me to propose something of that nature when I have not been in Gondor for more than a week, but I merely mention it to give Esty something to jot down in her tablets. For it seems to me that a full Werewolf RPG in which the Game Initiator were to assume the duties of a game moderator might be quite entertaining. It would, of course, be an actual RPG and adhere to RPG rules and standards; it would be an RPG modelled on the game of werewolf and not a game of werewolf that attempts to be an RPG. It would also, ideally, be an RPG in which rather, shall we say, experienced gamers would play so that we could keep the game on track and involved with the intrigue of it all...

"But that is mere wondering on my part, and more than likely it is the result of my having taken too much of the ale and bubbly of this fine establishment!"

[Durelin]

Durelin flashed her big beautiful canines at Fordim as she burst into the Seventh Star for the first time. She had gotten over her fear of entering the famed establishment before she even touched the door, but she was still a little daunted upon entering. Those who sat there and took their rest every day were of the finest, and she knew it; writers and adventurers who had weathered such a great multitude of quests and battles and different personalities that she could feel herself getting dizzy simply at the thought of it all. To consider the hopeless dream that she might one day feel more at home in the Seventh Star made her feel giddy enough that she swaggered over the Fordim Hedgethistle to give him a pat on the back.

It was perhaps a little hard pat on the back, but it was certainly a fond one. Her face reddened a bit as she wondered if this was perhaps a breach in protocol, Fordim now being a great Gondorian, and her being only half a Rohirrim. And that bit of wondering brought her to face the truth that she was indeed a slacker for still being barely acquainted with Rohan. She decided to order a round just for herself to drown her sorrows, and then sat down and propped her feet up at a nearby table.

"First of all, my dear Fordim, congratulations. Second, I will say that I've been too insecure to voice the idea of a Werewolf RPG, and have avoided engaging too obsessively in the Werewolf frenzy for fear of being a follower, which is widely against my nature, but it excites me that such a game might occur..." She sighed heavily, but not sadly, feeling annoyingly nostalgic. "O the never-ending allure of RPGs... I would love to take part in a game with you again, Fanatical Fordim, if perhaps it would be allowed that I partake in a Gondorian game (assuming that some kind of game will be born in Gondor in the near future), recalling your first game RPed, and your first game managed, the latter of which I remember with regret... So, I just thought I'd stop by and join in the cheers, even though I am a little behind in the proceedings, as usual."

[mark12_30]

"Werewolves? Hmmm...." muttered Willow, giving Oak and Beech a wary glance. "Interesting. Well, Master Fordim, welcome; we do look forward to your tales. Shall we hear you sing? Or, perhaps, howl--"

Beech cuffed him sharply.

Willow was indignant. "I was being polite. Culturally sensitive. Open minded."

"Save it, sapling," muttered Oak, and then stepped forward. "Welcome, Fordim of the Gauntlet! Be not startled; word travels. We shall gladly hear your tales, be they vengeful or rabid, all in good time, my dear fellow, all in good time. Cheers!"

[Child of the 7th Age]

There was a lull in conversation as the Inn door swung open to reveal a small, bedraggled hobbit slumped over on the stoop. Cami Goodchild slowly placed one furry foot ahead of the other and rose unsteadily, hoisting up a claw hammer with one hand and an overflowing bucket with the other. Strapped to her back was a large canvas sling that carried the remains of what looked like someone's garden fence. Water dripped down from Cami's curly hair and round red nose making a considerable accumulation on the spot where she was standing.

"Watch out there!", growled one of the serving lads standing near the door. "Yer makin' a terrible mess on the floor, now. Get down there and clean up that puddle, or there'll be no hot meal and flagon of ale for you.

Cami stuck out her tongue at the good fellow who was nearly twice her size, "Enough! I've had enough headaches the past few days. I just wanted to come down to the Seventh Star and offer my best wishes to the illustrious Master Fordim. Only I've had such a hard time getting here. Our home was hit with a slew of bad weather, fierce stuff that reminded me of the Tale of Beleriand that Master Bilbo used to recite. Great winds and water, such as you wouldn't believe! So I don't see why you are making such a fuss over a bit of water on the floor."

The lad responded in a gentler voice, "Sorry there now. I didn't know you'd run into such a string of bad luck. Are you alright now, Mistress Cami?," he queried. "Not hurt I hope....you or your burrow?"

"No," added Cami with a shake of her head and a reassuring smile. "We are all doing quite well. We thought of leaving and staying with my cousin Widow Bunche who hails from the westlands. But there were so many carts and horses on the road that it was impossible to make any real progress. After seven hours of going in circles, we came back in and hunkered down in our burrow for the night. We've a mess to clean up, but nothing worse than that. But I am most grateful to see this nasty weather go away. Still, there are folk much worse off than I. Some live further east and their homes were flattened to the ground. Others are older folk living in my neighborhood who have little food stocked away for hard times like these. I need to give my greetings quickly and then return to the Shire to see if I can help."

With that, Mistress Cami ran over towards the place where Fordim was sitting.

[Bêthberry]

A pleasant cacaphony of voices, cheers and activity rolled around the Star as the party to celebrate Fordim's arrival in Gondor progressed. Towels and mops had greeted Cami's arrival but then they were put away and the floor was left to a gossipy hum about werewolves and survivors. At first, few noticed the strange little man who entered the front door but as he made his way into the storied inn, voices began to drop and fade away.

He was of stature slight, particularly compared to Gondorians, although taller than either Cami or Fordim. He carried himself proudly, his lithe body speaking of skill and agility rather than mass and torpor. He might be said to favour one leg, yet it could not be said he appeared crippled. A veteran of wars he apparently was, for he also bore a long scar from a thin right eyebrow down across his high cheekbone to his ear, part of which was missing. The eye under the scar was closed, the sunken lid hanging over the socket that now was useless. A perpetual twitch pulled the muscles of his cheekbone, giving his face a strange sensation of rapid motion.

His hair, straight and black and cut evenly, hung down past his ears and was held in place by a red band across his forehead, a style rarely seen in the White City. His nose was broad but long, set on an equally long face with square jaw and small mouth, thin lipped. Yet of all his features it was his sallow, tawny skin which stiffened the attention of the Star's patrons.

The room went silent as he surveyed them first and then sought out the funny hobbit whose face was hidden behind a tankard.

Two, maybe three men from the corner rose towards him. "We don't see your kind much in these parts."

The man ignored them and continued walking towards Fordim. Another man spoke louder.

"He said, Easterling, we don't see your kind here. He meant, we don't want your kind here."

"Halt," spoke a voice with authority. A guard of Gondor, with an empty sleeve tied to his tunic , came forward and took a long look at the man's face. He paled. "Sôông, Sôông the Sullen," he said.

The man looked at him from his one good eye and, awareness flooding into his face, nodded slowly.

"We met on the Pelennor Field."

A tankard crashed in the kitchen, but none were startled by the sound.

They looked over each's wound. "An eye for an arm, Thregor," whispered Sôông.

"You dare to show your face in The White City?''

"I come on errand." A murmur arose.

"And who would bid an enemy enter our walls?"

"One who calls me not enemy." The murmur grew louder.

"Of who among us would you claim that?"

"One not here." Dust hung in the air refusing to twist in the sunlight as Thregor considered his options.

"Name him and state your peace."

Sôông took his time, marking the faces staring at him. His eyes lighted on the person who fit the description he had been given.

"I come on errand from Edoras, from the White Horse. Bethberry is she who will not name me enemy. Bethberry it is who has a message for the hobbit recently come to your city."

Fordim spoke up. "What could Bethberry ask of you concerning me?"

"She bids me say you departed in such haste that you left no instructions for her concerning your banner. She asks what colours you wish and what design for your story of the East."

"Well I'll be," said Fordim, astonished at the Innkeeper's audacity. He had never in his life come face to face with an Easterling and now here she was poking one in his face.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Still shaking his head at the alarming presence of the Easterling (and, perhaps, if the truth were to be told, shaking a bit in his clothes – for hobbits do not wear boots of course, except in muddy weather) Fordim did what came naturally to him when confronted with a question to which he not only had no answer, but had been totally unprepared for: he put on a thoughtful face and made as though he were giving it deep consideration. His herms and mutterings covered the deep and terrible blank that was his imagination at this precise moment. He fell back on an old trick.

“I don’t know,” he replied breezily, “you undoubtedly are aware of the tale, what do you think the banner should be?””

Sôông scowled at him darkly before proclaiming rather stiffly, “It is not for the listener to describe the tale, but the teller.”

Fordim tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes at the Easterling. “Is it? Is it really? I know that there are many people in this wide world who believe that, but the great lady who sent you is – I assure you – not one of them, nor am I. She and I have spoken of such matters at some length and we rather feel that it is the teller and the listener together who, in some way, are both involved in the creation of the tale’s banner. There are even some,” and here he tilted his head at the sleeping, pot-festooned figure snoring in the corner, “who believe that the teller is entirely irrelevant to the creation of the banner and that it is the listener’s task alone! If you have the time, there are a few tomes of great learning hereabouts that you can look at which detail these debates at some length, the first and – if I may say so – finest of these is called Canonicity…”

At the mere mention of the Thread That Must Not Be Named Esty the loremistress sprang to her feet, crying out “Ai Ai!” There were deep murmurings in the earth and a fell smoke poured toward the White City from Mordor. All eyes glared at Fordim, and the little fellow seemed to shrink into his mug of ale, to which he plied himself in a great show of silencing himself. When the skies were once again light and the birds had begun to sing, Fordim quickly said in a very small voice, “I think that it might be nice to have something with a hooded figure upon it, with the device of a single Ring above, while below him, alleviating the darkness that the figure casts, nine glittering stars, one for each of the gamers who made the tale worth the telling.”

[piosenniel]

All eyes seemed to glare at the Fordim, or so it seemed to Pio. All except hers. What she wanted to do was finish her game and down the mug of foaming dark ale that sat on a nearby stool.

The tenseness in the room seemed to thicken. It crept up her spine, making her shoulders twitch in irritation. She threw the last of the darts at the board, hitting the outside ‘1’. ‘By the One!’ she muttered, along with a few silent, more guttural imprecations.

‘Hey!’ she said to the grey server that hovered near. ‘Here’s a gold coin. Buy the house a round.’ End over end, the shiny disc arced, falling at the server’s feet. ‘I know, I know. It’s all free here . . . but humor me. I feel generous today.’ She stood back and looked critically at the server. ‘If nothing else, at least buy yourself a pretty scarf and brighten up that . . . uniform.’

She grabbed her dark blue cloak from the peg by the side door and threw it about her shoulders. Perhaps she could catch Cami before she headed out the door . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Cami stood in the outer hallway, her ear pressed tightly against the wooden door. She was weighing the words that she had just heard from inside the common room and was wondering if it was entirely wise for her to go back there at this time. Earlier, she had wrung the worst of the wet out of her skirt and bright embroidered vest and had decided that she might try to rent some accomodations for the evening. There was no sense trying to head out to her burrow in the middle of the night. Perhaps she should purchase some needed foodstuffs and building supplies at the peddlar's booths in Gondor the very next morning; the shelves in the Shire were still quite sparse on account of that blasted storm. She could even hire a pony to help carry her goods back home. All that had seemed fine and sensible until she'd heard Fordim and the others discussing the possible advent of an old and much dreaded nemesis.

She glanced up with some hesitation only to see Piosenniel's familiar face poking through the half-opened door. "Do you think it's safe?" she whispered to the Elf. "I mean to go back inside the common room for a meal. I thought I heard the word Canonicity . 'Tis enough to make a poor hobbit quake. The last time anyone mentioned that name, I was trapped inside the Books forum for twenty-two days with no possible way to escape. I've a mind to stay at the Inn tonight but if that nasty Canonicity is set on making an appearance, I would as soon sleep outside under the tree. You just can't trust that monstor." Cami gestured towards the outer door and then shook her head in exasperation.

"Now, if we might have a tale or a spot of music round the hearth fire....that would suit me just fine. Those shadowy werewolves should surely have something interesting to say. Or do you think we are doomed to take arms against this Canonicity ?" Cami shuddered slightly and then added, "By any chance, you wouldn't know where I could pick up some good fence pickets, or perhaps hire a pony here in Gondor?

[Bêthberry]

Sôông the Easterling ignored the actions of others in the Star and attended closely instead to Fordim's words.

"I understand not your words about teller and tale and listener, for I am not beholding to the law of the One," he replied carefully, not wishing to engender any more hostility, "yet your words are such as will satisfy she who sent me." He bowed formally to the hobbit and looked around to see how he could withdraw from the Inn. No one invited him to stay, nor to share a tankard of ale. At first, none gave way to allow him to leave, but the actions of the cloaked elf and wet, bedraggled hobbit allowed him to manage his egress without incident beyond that of stares. Breathing a sigh of relief and holding his head aside, he repeated Fordim's words to himself until he had them memorised for recital to the lady who sent him.

"“I think that it might be nice to have something with a hooded figure upon it, with the device of a single Ring above, while below him, alleviating the darkness that the figure casts, nine glittering stars, one for each of the gamers who made the tale worth the telling.”

Regaining his horse from the stable master was easy, as the man barely lifted his eyes to the strange figure before him and merely pocketed the coin Sôông handed him. Yet leaving the White City was no easy task, for many in the streets glared at him and more than one soldier guarding the many gates at each circle stopped him, forced him to dismount, and demanded a tariff if not a search of his person for weapons or stolen goods. One even landed a cuff to the back of his head once he was turned on his horse. Still, it was better than a sword or arrow through his back and so Sôông was grateful for that.

There were ragged tents and a rough sort of open market along the walls outside the city, attended by people coarsely clothed, maimed, hobbled, and obviously poor. Some of the traders looked like war veterans who, much like himself, would carry the scars of battle to their grave however their minds might change. Among these people he was the better received, however, with none remarking upon his origin. Here he sought his provisions for his return to Edoras. He filled his bag with foodstuffs, and, as the sun reached midday, began his long trek towards the Western Road. He had been loathe to make the journey, but he needed work and Bethberry was true. He knew she would keep her word.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

A silence had fallen upon the Seventh Star after the departure of Sôông the Easterling. Glasses were emptied, the excitement over the new arrival died down, and dust settled once more on those gathered about the tables. Silence.

There emerged from this silence, at long last, the sound of a pencil scribbling upon parchment. Eyes were drawn toward the corner table where Fordim had established himself and the people of the Star saw that he was hard at work, writing, then crumpling up the parchment, taking out a fresh sheet, and then writing some more. At long last he cried sat back, sighed and stood up. Clearing his throat he addressed the room.

“Greetings,” he began. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to beginning a new adventure now that I’m here, and I think that at long last I may have found something worthy of the luminaries gathered here.” He bowed deeply to the room. There was no response. He carried on, unaware. “I have a proposal for a new story that I’d like us to tell!” Still, the silence reigned, but again Fordim seemed unconcerned. Striding across to the board he tacked a sign to it. One by one, the people of the Star moved to have a look…





A Long Overdue Party

The year is TA 2920 and Gerontius Took is turning 130 years old. Aged but still hale, he has decreed that there is to be no birthday party for him at all this year – as there hasn’t been for the last ten years, not since before the Fell Winter of 2911 when provisions were so scarce that he had felt it improper to squander much needed supplies. Since that date, although times have improved, there are still many hobbits in the Shire, on both sides of the Brandywine, who have not fully recovered from that terrible year and the Thain has made it a point of pride that until every Hobbit can afford to celebrate their birthdays in fine style, neither shall he.

Unbeknownst to Gerontius, however, his vast family – having suffered through a decade without the annual celebration of the Thain (and its attendant days and nights of food and joviality) – has decided that a proper party is long overdue. To get around the decree of the Thain, they have called a secret meeting to discuss a grand party that shall take place on the Thain’s birthday but not necessarily in celebration of his birthday…

------------------------------------------------------------------

The game shall begin with all gamers sneaking into this meeting, which will be held deep in the vast storerooms of the Great Smials. The purpose of the game will be to plan the party, keep it a secret from Old Gerontius, and then to make sure that it comes off.

The game will be open to all gamers in Gondor and perhaps (if numbers are needed) to gamers in the Shire and Rohan on an invitation-only basis. All characters in this game are to be drawn from the genealogical tables found in the Appendices of The Return of the King.

As the game initiator I would ask that anyone interested in playing in this game begin by selecting a Hobbit from the genealogical tables and posting that name to the discussion thread so that everyone will know that this character has been “claimed.” Then begin work on a first post, detailing your character’s trip to and/or arrival at the meeting. When we have enough gamers, I will open a game thread and transfer these first posts there.

As there will be little “action” in this game it will live or die purely by the quality and complexity of the relationships that get established between the characters. Given that most of them will be related to one another, or close friends of the family, they will obviously be very familiar with one another, so I would ask that all gamers work together closely both in the discussion thread and via PM to make sure that the state of relations between their characters are established clearly before the game begins. Ideally, of course, these relations will be strained, change, evolve or even be transformed in game play.

The way I think that this would work best is by asking everyone to post a kind of personality profile for their character, rather than a biography or history. It hardly seems necessary to state this here in Gondor, but I would simply remind people that having a long and elaborate ‘back story’ for your character tends to dampen the spontaneity and creativity of the game. If we could all simply give a sketch of what our character is like, then it would undoubtedly be easier to work out who gets along with whom, or not, as the case may be…

As I have long wanted to play a woman character (and as I am the game initiator) I am going to go ahead and immediately claim Adamanta Took (Gerontius’s wife; née Chubb) as my own. By way of example of the kind of personality profile I am thinking of, here’s what Adamanta is like:

Adamanta, while much younger than her husband, now enjoys the sobriety of age. Formerly possessed of a fiery temper, she is now slow to anger, but quick to hold a grudge against those whom she feels have slighted her or – worse – members of her family. Her sense of familial obligation is such that she would throw herself in front of the Wolves for any one of them…even those whom she is not so fond of. This dedication, which may appear as love, is really born of pride in her vast and accomplished clan. Formerly a Chubb, she is aware of the status that has been conferred upon her by her marriage to the Thain and she guards this status zealously. To her friends she is open, kind, friendly and full of good, sound (although sometimes unsolicited) advice. To those who cross her or earn her ill-will she unabashedly demonstrates contempt and impatience. Her favourite past-time is working in the garden where she has established a formal flower garden known throughout the Shire for its many varieties, some of which she has herself created and named after members of her family. Some of the varieties have, in fact, been renamed as the original honourees fell out of favour with the mercurial and indomitable matriarch of the Tooks.


A murmur went up at this (as did some eyebrows) but again, Fordim seen entirely unaware of these (the eyebrows). He crossed his arms quite magnificently and announced in his best announcing voice: “I have already spoken with some of you about this game, and as thanks for your efforts I’ve given these people the chance to select their roles in advance.

“Esty has said that she would like to write for Donnamira Boffin, daughter of Adamanta and Gerontius and, as it would happen, great-grandmother to Folco, about who Esty knows a bit…

“Pio wishes to create Flambard Took, son of Isembard, grandson of Gerontius.

“Child has said that Belladonna Took is of interest to her.

“AND FINALLY!” he raised his voice at this Announcement, a look of smug self-satisfaction upon his face, “the role of Gerontius Took is to be undertaken by none other than The Barrow Wight himself, to whom I have promised that – as I shall be writing for Gerontius’ wife – that there will be no mushy stuff in this game…at least between the elder Tooks!”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The door of the Seventh Star blew open and Fordim staggered in, his eyes red and rimmed with fatigue, his shoulders drooping with exertion. His untidy hair and unshaven face reminded several there of the Rangers of the North, who are not known for their cleanliness. And yet for all the haggardness of his appearance there was about the man an air of happiness that spread outward from him like a low fire.

He fell against the bar, hodling it as though without it he would fall down, and indeed for a moment, it appeared as though me might fall asleep where he stood. The barkeep passed him a cup of strong coffee laced with something even stronger and after sucking it down, Fordim was able to speak. Turning to his fellow Gondorians he began a Speech:

"Greetings all! As some of you know I have recently advertised an adventure of an entirely hobbitish sort that I wanted to embark upon and some of you had kindly expressed an interest in it. But I am afraid that at this time I find I must suspend that adventure, and indeed much of my activities in this marvellous realm.

"Back in my own land, my wife, the good Missus Hedgethistle, has just given birth to twins -- this event while, of course, not unexpected, has occured somewhat earlier than we had thought it would. Fortunately for us, the skill of the healers in our land is such that both mother and children are doing well and resting comfortably. But as you can imagine, my energy is now rather in demand and I find that I cannot commit to any long or demanding undertaking here.

"So it is with deep regret that I shall be forced to suspend my proposed adventure for the time being.

"This is not good-bye but only a brief farewell. While I may not be able to visit these lands of the Downs as much as I have formerly I will check in from time to time. Look for me when you least expect me!"

And with a bang and a flash, he was gone.

[mark12_30]

Oak, Beech, and Willow finished their drinks, stood up from their table, and wandered toward the door. As they went, Beech glanced up at the wall, and paused.

Oak stopped and waited, and Willow swayed impatiently. Beech ran his hands through his hair, and shook his head. "...admitted to the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice her trade.... " he muttered.

"What?" said Willow.

Beech said it again, louder. "Has been named on the roles posted in the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice his trade in the Realm of Gondor."

Oak and Willow exchanged confused glances.

"We have neard little news, " Beech said. "Perhaps the messengers have been waylaid or news has not come this far. But I am sure there have been adventurers in Rohan whose names would be expected here. But none have been announced for quite a while. Do you not think so?"

"I think you're daft, " replied Oak.

"You think everyone is daft," replied Willow.

"Nevertheless, I think it is odd that we have seen no new adventurers from Rohan in over a year, " said Beech.

"Oh, you fret too much, " said Oak.

"You don't think enough, " said Willow.

Still bickering, the Three Trees walked out of the dark Inn into the bright afternoon.

[Thenamir]

A long silence had fallen over the Star (unlike stars which usually fall in silence) and somehow in the quiet a newcomer had slipped into their midst, though no one had seen him enter. He smiled not at all, gazing long and steadily at all in the room in turn, though never was he the first to drop his eyes.

He was of average height, but unnaturally thin and pale, as though he had spent long hours seated in cold and cramped places illumined by lights most unnatural. His visage was young, but drawn and pale. He wore an odd thin black mask which appeared to hold a pair of smoothly flat pieces of glass before his eyes. His breeches and tunic were of a supple but very strong material of a light blue nearing white, and upon his breast there was a pocket containing three or four small thin rods of varying hues. In one hand he bore a staff of white, in the other a new-looking parchment.

He strode through the silent throng to the Wall of Notices. Oddments of parchments now crumbling with age, old advertisements for questors and adventurers, still hung there, mute testament to the loremasters and warriors of olden times. He shook his head sadly as he glanced through the bits and pieces of lore gone by. But in a moment his staff was up, and with a quick motion he swept the detritus from the wall. In the resulting open space he slapped the parchment to the wall, pinning it quickly with four smart taps of his staff to the corners of the document.

Any activity of this kind was now so rare in the Seventh Star as to be nearly equivalent to legend and myth, and many were those in the Star who started at the newcomer's actions, and many who desired to read the portents which the new posting contained. But none would approach yet, as the stranger slowly turned to face them.

"I am come on the request of Merisuwyniel," he said in the voice of a squeaky countertenor of the very worst boy-bands, "she of the Quest of the Entish Bow, Whose Golden Tresses Are Always Perfectly Coiffed, and Who the merest dust mote would never deem to touch. Many were the misadventures of that quest. Many were the vile puns and insults of low humor that she endured and yet came forth victorious -- the Ent is now reunited! Yet many foolhardy and faux-hearty souls were lost along the way. And now, at the denouement of her adventures, a new quest has been laid upon her by the Yawanna, the Green Goddess herself (may her dressings never sour) to restore the lost King, the questionable Halfemption Gormlessar, to the throne of Grundor in Minus Teeth, the high city (referring mostly to the special pipeweed there). There are yet more posts to riposte, more gaffes to gather, and more continuity to contort! Join us as we seek parity in parody! Let the Barrow-Writers come forth and join us in REB III: The Return of the Entish Beings!"

With that, the nearly-white-clad stranger spoke softly into the head of his staff the words of great power: "Beeme meup Skotii!" Moments later the stranger disappeared in a sparkly display of mixed-metaphorical anachronisms...

[piosenniel]

Pio drew her blue wool cloak tightly about her as she pushed open the heavy door. The rough hewn oak of the Star’s door felt comforting, familiar still beneath her fingertips though it had been many a year since her path had taken her to this Inn.

It was eerily silent within as she entered, just as it had been that first time she’d come here. She peered about, but nowhere as she looked around could she discern the figure of the Innkeeper, Rim. No flash of his thin blue sash in light or in shadow caught her trailing gaze. His grey clad staff still ministered to the Inn’s needs, she noted approvingly, even in Rim’s absence. The pale, wood-paneled floor was spotless. On each clean and uncluttered tabletop burnt a fiercely bright candle. And at the far end of the common room above the fireplace hung the great iron plaque inscribed with a list of names engraved in a flowing script.

Pio handed her cloak to one of the servers, waving away his offer of a glass of wine. ‘Here, come help me,’ she directed him, making her way toward the fireplace. ‘Lower down the plaque, won’t you,’ she went on. ‘I’ve got a bit of polishing to do on it.’ ‘And.....’ she muttered a little more quietly to herself.....’something to put on it if I can figure out the trick Rim used to do so.’

As luck, and a few glasses of wine now accepted, would have it, the plaque polished easily and just as easily lent itself to being writ upon. ‘Clever old fox, that Rim,’ she chuckled to herself. Pio stepped back a pace, giving a critical eye to her handiwork. ‘Not bad, eh?’ she said, nudging the silent server at her side. For his part he gave her a deferential nod, though she wondered if she had really seen one of his eyebrows raise slightly at her familiarity.

The plaque was raised up once again to its place above the fireplace. The light from the sconces to either side of it made it gleam brightly, especially the newly ‘graved name. ‘Now all we have to do,’ Pio went on, ‘is send out the errand-riders to announce the party.’ She reached into the worn leather pouch that hung from her belt. ‘Here, I’ve written this up already.’ She pulled out a much folded piece of parchment and smoothed it out on a nearby table top -

***

Come one, come all, you denizens here and in far lands!!
All those who enjoy the reading of a good tale and the playing out of one.

A new name has been added to the list of storytellers in Gondor:

~*~ littlemanpoet ~*~

Come and give your congratulations to this wonderful wordsmith!

~*~ Free drinks/ free food/ & plenty of good company ~*~

***

‘Just send this out, won’t you dear,’ Pio went on, handing the parchment to the server. She clapped her hands and motioned others of the silent retinue forward. ‘Big party! Make sure there’s plenty of the good stuff for the partygoers. And, oh, yes, see if you can dig up some of those nuts.....those ones from the south.....pistachios. They’re good with ale.....and I have a taste for some of the good brew from Stock.’

Pio sat herself down on one of the stools at the bar and accepted the mug of dark ale that appeared quietly in front of her on the deeply polished bar top. She hummed low as sipped at it, every once in a while giving an expectant glance at the door.

[mark12_30]

"A taleteller indeed. I have heard him speak; he can weave a fine tale, " said Hiriest.

"Too bad there will be more drinking than tale-telling, for I would like to hear him, " said Beech.

"Patience, then. Or fortitude, for some of his tales are in the library. Bring extra oil for your lamp, and coffee; you will be there long." Oak chuckled; Beech had no taste for dim libraries.

"Reading his tales! Surely he can tell them to me himself."

Willow smiled, and said nothing, but Oak laughed out loud.

"THey are not short tales, " Hiriest replied, laughing. Together they came to the Inn door, and round the corner came a small hobbit. They stopped short in surprise.

"Well met, Halfling. What brings you to Minas Tirith?" said Beech. "We are Hiriest, Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, and Doroninn. We are pleased to make your aquaintance...?"

"Lindo, of Westmarch," he said, and bowed. "I received tidings that littlemanpoet has been named a Bard of the Seventh Star."

"He has indeed, " replied Hiriest,"and we come to celebrate him as well. JOin us for an ale?"

"Thank you!" replied Lindo, and the five entered the Seventh Star.

[Undómë]

Curiouser and curiouser . . . Undómë swept in through the stout oaken door in the wake of the quite interesting group who preceded her. Of Hobbits she was quite familiar, but the four tall figures with him quite took away her breath. Ents! I’m sure of it! she whispered in an awestruck tone. LMP’s circle of friends ranges wide indeed!

She thought she saw a familiar figure, there on the stool. It was Piosenniel, wasn’t it? From back in the Shire. Undómë heard the Inn doors swing shut behind her as she headed for the bar. She noted a mound of little red colored shell halves piled in front of the Elf, and watched her for a moment as she skillfully prised apart another . . . nut, it must b . . . and popped it into her mouth.

‘What are those?’ Undómë asked. She glanced about the still empty room. ‘And where is LMP . . . can’t have a party without the honoree.’

Can have a drink, though. she thought to herself.

No sooner thought than done. There in front of her stood a tall mojito; its mint sprig garnish seemed to wave at her invitingly. Some place!! she thought as she took a generous swig of her drink.

[littlemanpoet]

"It's just as good in the living as in the reading or the telling," said Raefindan to his guest. "Look around you!" The young man with the moppish head of red hair gestured grandly at the bowshaped promontory that overshadowed the city, and his hand continued in an arc encompassing the whole city and the plain below and the rising mountain above.

Raefindan's guest closed his eyes, not to shut out the wonder but to take a moment to take it all in. A small smile came to his bearded face. He opened his mouth to speak his thought, but all that came was, in a murmur, "It's wonderful."

"Is that all you have to say? You're supposed to be such a wordsmith!"

"You're teasing me," Raefindan's guest said. "Well, okay then, so strange it seems, and good, here at the end of all things, as a true hero once said, that you are with me, Raefindan."

"And how could I not be with you, you made me what I am today."

"How could I not have helped you become what you are? You're a part of me."

"Enough of that, here we are," said Raefindan, "The Seventh Star. They're waiting for you."

Raefindan's guest shook his head, the smile of incredulity remaining on his face. "Well, let's not disappoint."

They passed through the front doors and found inside a decorous common room, rich wood beams and clean tables. There was Pio, and Undómë, and Lindo and Hiriest along with some Ents who somehow did not look out of place.

"Greetings, friends!" cried Raefindan, and named himself. "I bring you littlemanpoet!"

Littlemanpoet grinned, abashed, for he saw the plaque on the wall and was humbled at the honor. "Greetings! Please, call me Elempi."

[Arry]

Arry stomped along the road leading up to the Inn. One hand was stuck in his pocket, fingering the crumpled notice from The Golden Perch. Hmmm . . . let’s see he said squinting his eyes toward the sign he saw swinging in the breeze. The sign read “The Seventh Star” . Arry pulled the parchment from his pocket and held it up close, confirming that that was indeed the Inn named for the party.

He remembered elempi from The Yule Log. Wenda had been his character there . . . a very interesting character she’d turned out to be. Arry recalled how he’d thought Elempi a quite good writer then and from what he’d read in the Rohan Mead Halls his writing had gotten better and better. And, oh, there was that old memory of another encounter. Yes – the old Green Dragon Inn! Elempi played Falowik to Elora’s Uien. A lovely couple; well drawn.

Arry shouldered open the Star’s door and stepped into the welcoming light. He was a bit discomfited as one of the silent servers slid up alongside him and with a wave of his grey-clad arm offered to show Arry to a table.

‘Thanks, but I’ll find my own,’ Arry said, nodding back as the server gave him a deferential bow. His eyes were drawn to the place where Elempi stood with yet another familiar face . . . a blue eyed, tall young man with a mop of red hair. Now he recalled the young man’s name – Raefinden, from the Tapestry stories.

Arry drew close to the knot of well-wishers about elempi. ‘Been good to write with you, sir,’ he said extending his hand. ‘Just wish there had been time for another opportunity to game together.’

[Durelin]

Durelin snuck into the Seventh Star just in time to hear, “I bring you littlemanpoet!” from a vaguely familiar voice, and to join in with the applause. She had been away from both Rohan and Gondor, and even The Shire, for far too long. She had nearly just returned home – as Rohan was becoming her home now, now that she had settled in with some Southerners and a Dwarf with short-term memory loss – when she received the message. But there was no way she was going to miss such an event.

“Speech!” Durelin shouted before ducking deeper into the crowd of well-wishers and/or freeloaders and/or pistachio eaters, slipping behind them and looking for a seat not in the middle of things. She was just plopping down on a chair when she noticed Valde Delego sulking in the very back of the common room. She smiled, and gestured for him to join her. He obeyed, though he dragged his feet and hunched his shoulders as if he wished to be invisible. Durelin was not sure if it was because he did not want anyone to know he was attending such festivities (whether purposefully or not), or if he simply did not want to be seen with her. Probably both.

“Yes?” he drawled as he slid gracefully onto the seat opposite her.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Durelin said with a grin. He knew she was getting a good deal of amusement simply out of his presence. “But of course you’d have a soft spot for Elempi.”

Valde sneered, but did not speak for a moment. He seemed to struggle with himself before admitting,

“I assigned littlemanpoet to the Shire.”

[mark12_30]

The grey-clad wait-staff appeared with three tall earthen vessels brimming clear-gold. THey seemed to glow.

"I say, " said Beech.

"In honor of the new Bard, " said Oak.

Willow said nothing, only swaying a little as he reached for his draught.

Hiriest protested. "They brought none for me? None for the harper?"

"You're tall enough, " replied Oak.

"Perhaps I should try some," said Lindo.

"I think not!" said Beech.

"Well then, Lindo, we must stick together, and enjoy our ale, " said Hiriest. "And they don't need to grow any more, really. It's vanity."

THe five young men raised their drinks to each other, and Lindo smiled. "The Three Trees do have a leafy look. To littlemanpoet!"

"To the Bard!"

"Ode to the Bard! Ode to the Bard!" The chant arose, and caught on around the room. "Ode to the Bard!"

With ale and voices raised in song
We cheer the teller of tales along
and wait for the next tale to be borne--
Ode to the Bard! Ode to the Bard!

Not ale enough nor song have we
Forth to elempi sent in cheer
SO songs and many flagons of beer are
Owed to the Bard! Owed to the Bard!"

[mark12_30]

Hiriest took his ale in hand, and turned to the various guests. Lindo rose to join him. Together they roamed the Inn; they approached Undómë and greeted her with a bow.

Oak, Beech, and WIllow lingered over their draughts a little longer, but soon they wandered as well. Arry chatted with Raefindan and elempi; Beech and Willow turned to join them.

Oak sought out Durelin, who sat with one Valde Delego. He peeered at them from beneath mossy eyebrows, and and watched as they popped pistachios, which smelled odd. He looked then at Piosenniel, sitting in the corner, watching the goings-on with interest.

"Hmmm, " he said. "These grow far to the south, in sandier places. I haven't seen pistachio trees since Beleriand." He sniffed them.
Pio's eyes sparkled, and she offered him a handful. WIth a wave of his leafy hand, he declined.

[Groin Redbeard]

Groin’s short, broad, dwarf stature helped him to enter the inn unnoticed. So this is what it’s like in Gondor, he thought to himself. Normally he wouldn’t travel this far south, out of the borders of the Shire and Rohan, but he had heard Little Man Poet’s stories and he could not help but to come and give his best wishes to the noble bard.

He surveyed the inn and its guests; he spotted Durelin, who he knew, talking with some strange folk. He stared in awe at the trees that moved, drank, and even talked. This certainly was a queer country.

He unfastened his weather stained cloak, which had faded from a deep forest green to a grayish color, and placed it on a hanger. His mail shirt glittered in the light as he walked up to the bar for ale, but he stopped when he had sighted the guest of honor surrounded by a host of people, who were all congratulating him. Groin chuckled to himself, continued to the bar and grabbed a mug.

“Here’s to Little Man Poet,” he said to the bartender, and raised his mug, “May his superb writing talents grow even more in the company of the esteemed loresmen of Gondor!” And having toasted LMP he drained his mug.

[littlemanpoet]

A hobbit came up. Elempi recognized Arry, and smiled.

The hobbit spoke. ‘Been good to write with you, sir,’ he said extending his hand. ‘Just wish there had been time for another opportunity to game together.’

Elempi shook the hobbits hand with pleasure. "I would have like that. I still wince when I think how I put words in your mouth that one time at the Green Dragon. Hope you can forgive me. I can get carried away, you know."

Before Arry could reply, a sudden shout arose.

"To the Bard!"

"Ode to the Bard! Ode to the Bard!" The chant arose, and caught on around the room. "Ode to the Bard!"

With ale and voices raised in song
We cheer the teller of tales along
and wait for the next tale to be borne--
Ode to the Bard! Ode to the Bard!

Not ale enough nor song have we
Forth to elempi sent in cheer
SO songs and many flagons of beer are
Owed to the Bard! Owed to the Bard!"

This was too much. Grinning, Elempi said, "Excuse me, Arry, I need a beer." With a grin and nod from Arry, Elempi and Raefindan made their way to the bar. Elempi asked for a tall frothy best of the house from Pio. Raefindan ordered a red ale. While he waited for the drink, Elempi looked around and saw off in the shadows both a young lady of pronouned writing skills (pardon the pun) and a lanky dark figure apparently trying to dramatically hide, and his eyes popped open. It was Valde Delego and Durelin! "I am going to have to have a chat with them before this is done!" he said to himself.

Pio set a tall one in front of him, and he took in a long pull of the smooth nectar.

"Not to mention, Raefindan, I must make the aquaintance of Oak, Beech, and Willow, shepherds of three of my favorite trees."

"By all means!" said his drinking partner.

A Dwarf bellied up to the bar and made quick work of his first one. Elempi recognized him. "Groin! Good to see you!"

The dwarf grunted his greeting which did not change his surly expression one iota, which Elempi figured was typical of Dwarves. He nodded his excuses and he and Raefindan strolled over to the Ents.

[mark12_30]

"Last Tapestry post was a bit too warm, " said Beech.

"Eh, I'd like another draught please, " said Oak.

Willow waved in agreement. They edged away from the fireplace, avoiding candles.

"Raefindan, "said Beech, "we think it is time to hear how you cool things down. How about a nice rain?"

"Long rain, " agreed Oak.

"Big rain, " whispered Willow, swaying and sweeping. "Much rain. Great deep-to-the-roots rain--"

Raefindan turned to Elempi. "Can I really do that?"

Elempi grinned.

[Durelin]

Durelin bowed her head slightly to Oak, when she noticed eyes under a leafy brow were on her. She could not help smiling. The Seventh Star was the only place in which she had ever seen an Ent, though she had seen many strange things even in her brief time. This was an excellent place to find the stuff of stories, old and new. The perfect place to find some inspiration, to catch rumors of a new adventure that called for questers, Durelin thought as she stared at pistachios.

Looking around, she was surprised to catch sight of someone familiar. She had not seen Arry in quite some time, and supposed she had missed him among the crowd until now. She would have to have a word with him soon, perhaps about a new adventure. No, it is likely too soon…

After seeing an older familiar face, Durelin was very pleased to see a newer one. She waved to Groin, but she would not bother him with any talk of adventures. She had already dragged him into one, and then left him and his fellows on their own for much of it. Yes, it is too soon… But then, that adventure was nearing an end…

“I’d prefer you not draw so much attention to yourself…” Valde hissed.

[Bêthberry]

"Strange, strange," whispered the woman almost to herself as she peeked into the window of The Seventh Star. "I could have sworn I heard pleasant voices on the wind coming from this place. But I see only an ugly intruder hustling his wares, as if this were a common warehouse."

The motes of dust glimmered inside as the sunlight seemed to bend with the wind, but remained mute.

The woman looked across the street to see if any familiar faces were gathering at the other inn--the Lamb and Flag. Yes, yes, there they were, celebrating some sort of moot. What would it take, she wondered, to entice them back to the Star? She thought silently for a bit. Oh well, at least perhaps I can push that pushy intruder out of the Star and bury his tawdry wares.

[mark12_30]

A screech split the dust motes, and the peddler crashed into the oaken door, wrestling with the latch, and then burst out into the street, wares scattering on the cobblestones. After stomping his foot and shouting imprecations, he thrashed about for a moment, and then stopped, inspected his injured toe, searched about, gathered his wares, and marched off towards the marketplace grumbling.

A small mouse poked his nose out of the door, twitching his whiskers. The peddlar's foot had not tasted pleasant, and the mouse sat on his hindquarters and rubbed his nose with his paws. Nevertheless he was pleased that the intruder had left.

Now if only Bethberry would take his place. And perhaps an ent, or three.

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry crouched down at the window at the contatenation of sound and curses and disturbance that followed--or proceeded--the errent peddlar. Once he was safely down the road, she rose and turned to the door, catching sight of the wee mousie.

"Was it you we have to thank, for ridding us of the unneighourly peddlar, Wee Mousie?" She hadn't talked to a mouse in quite some time, but didn't think that would ruin the conversation. Any language could always use practice.

The mouse looked up at her, swishing its tail, as if to say, "Well who else do you think?" Then swiftly it ran off, back into the Star, and Bethberry followed.

I thought I had heard some Ents asking for rain, she mused to herself. And wondered if she had any of Mum's old talents in her to comply.

[mark12_30]

"Big rain, " whispered Beech.

"Long rain, " hoomed Oak.

"Much rain, for laughing streams and running rivers, " pleaded Willow, trailing long wispy branches through the dust.

The mouse wiggled his nose at Willow, careful to avoid his spreading roots. Wilow saw it, and frowning, swept a trailer towards him.

"No fear, " squeaked the mouse. "I've no desire to be caught inside a snicking crack!" and the mouse scampered up the Oak.

"Tickles, " said Oak.

"I'll get him, " offered Willow ominously.

"Bethberry!" called Beech. "Big rain, before Oak is caught between Willow and a Mouse!"

Bethberry sighed. "Nothing like pressure, " she muttered. Outside the Inn, a light pattering began on the streets.

[mark12_30]

Each breathing a sigh of relief, the ents shuffled out the door into the rain. It came faster and thicker, up from the sea with a sweet south wind. Anon the streets shone, and then rivulets began to run down towards the gates.

The mouse was soon bedraggled, crept down Oak's back, and took refuge in the inn again. But the ents each found a place by the streetside where they could stand in the rain, arms outstretched. The rain washed and comforted them, cooling tempers caused by ticklish mice and too much dust. They breathed easily and peacefully. One by one they closed their eyes and settled into naps filled with lovely dreams.

A couple strode past, hastening to reach their home and get out of the sudden rain. One looked up in surprise at the three gnarled old trees that had suddenly appeared by the inn door.

"I know the King's elf-friend hath said we grow too many stones and not enough trees, " she said to her husband, "but haven't they planted saplings in the lower rings? Whence came these hoary wizened trunks?"

Her husband shrugged. "They could have brought us fruit trees. These be good for naught but the forge."

They hastened on, but the old wife cast many a backward glance towards the old inn doorway til the curve of the street hid the trees from view.

Bethberry poked her head out the door, and whispered. "No fear of the forge for you. Sleep now; sleep, and dream of wind on the hillside."

A sigh from Beech was the only answer.

[Durelin]

Corman muttered about the skies giving no warning before they decided to leak. The world had suddenly turned a hazy grey: with no blue in sight, the sky was a blanket of cloud. The rain was already seeping into his clothes; it had caught him without a coat. He hurried through the streets of Gondor, looking for a relief. Any overhangs from buildings were already crowded in, and he wasn't about to duck into a shop without any intention of buying anything. He preferred keeping on good terms with the keepers, especially along this row -- he wore out boots like no other man.

Leafy branches caught his eye, and Corman hurried toward them, huddling under their cover between two of three trees. His back was pressed up against the bark of their trunks before he bothered to consider where these trees had come from. There weren't trees in this level of the city. There wasn't room for them! He looked up into their large and gnarled branches, his brow furrowed, but did not move from his spot. He already felt a little warmer.

The man twisted around and looked behind him at what the trees were blocking, as they interrupted the roadway lined with various establishments. There were pleasant windows and a large oak door, but he couldn't make out the sign above through the tree branches. Was it an inn? He turned himself back around. Like the one across the street, he realized -- "The Lamb and Flag." Maybe he could duck in there, instead.

[Bêthberry]

It had been a long, long time since Bethberry had danced, any kind of dance, let alone the kind her mother had taught her. She was out of practice.

But she persisted, weaving slowly around the darkened Star and leaving in her wake coiled footprints in the dust. The wee mousie watched her, wrinkling his nose. This was something he had never seen before.

Slowly, ever so slowly, and then calmly picking up tempo, Bethberry wound her way around the old Inn, feeling the energy of the world flow through her and out again into the sky above. The rain softly pattered at first, then picked up speed. The ents lumbered outside and positioned themselves under the open sky where the rain poured down on their parched limbs and leaves.

It wasn't welcomed by the denizens of the city, not by any means, for they were long distanced from the earth, in their towering city built layer by layer up as if to defy the very ground it was built upon. Bethberry was surprised, even shocked, by a couple whose unhappy voices drifted into the Inn. She looked out and caught their dissatisfaction. Then she looked at Oak, Beech and Willow and smiled. They were well pleased with the draught of fresh water. She whispered to them on the air and then retreated into the Inn, dancing more slowly now. She was exhausted. It had been such a long time since she had touched the earth this way.

She hadn't even seen the man who huddled under the Ents for protection. But finally she moved into stillness, a stillness that made a perfect moment. Here, now, the Inn was alive with possibility.

[mark12_30]

The man looked around, up through the branches, at the gnarly trunks, into the Inn window, and at the door across the street. His boots were worn; perhaps he was a wanderer.

But deep roots are better than wandering, even for a man. Beech hoped that the refugee would stay.

[Durelin]

Corman watched the rain fill the cracks between stones in the road. As it began to collect, the water ran near his feet in a small ribbon down the sides of the street. Perhaps he could make a run for it, to the lit windows of the inn across the street. But as he stood with his arms crossed under the cover of the strange trees, breathing in the air the rain had made suddenly fresh, he found himself...rather comfortable.

His boots felt as if they had been mortared to the stone, his feet felt heavy, and he found his mind drifting far away from the warm and welcoming Lamb and Flag. Corman shook his head. His feet were probably starting to numb from the cold and wet, his boots rain-soaked. He twisted around to look at the building front behind him again.

With three trees growing out in front of it -- though he did not recall them growing but only appearing -- this establishment could not be active. Curious, he slipped between two of the trees, stepping carefully over roots with wonder. He put his face and a hand up to one of the windows, peering inside.

[mark12_30]

The heavy inn-door swung open, and a slender hobbit stepped inside. Seated several tables into the inn were a ranger and the young loremistress, both of whom stood. "Well met, Lindo, " said the ranger. "Welcome, Loremaster," said the loremistress with a slight bow.

"Mellonin. Ravion." The hobbit bowed to each in turn, waved for a half-pint, and took the proffered chair bolstered with several cushions.

They echanged several pleasantries, til Ravion said "And now, I am as eager as you are to know why Mellonin sent for you."

"Indeed, " said Lindo, turning to Mellonin.

"Well, I am wondering... Perhaps I shall write a new tale," said Mellonin, with a shy smile.

"Good heavens, you have not finished the last one," said Ravion. "Do you not think you owe us the final pages of Tapestry first?"

Mellonin ran her fingers down the wet sides of her glass. "The tale is mostly told. But how can I write about my own Mellondu's grief?" she said.

"How is he?" asked Lindo.

"Moody and sad. He will not look at women or talk to them. He spends all his time at the forge, but he never sings, and he does half the work he used to."

Lindo shrugged. "You must not be surprised. What mortal could forget Nimrodel? He will do well to be healed of his loss ere he fades from his prime."

Ravion did not like the flash in Mellonin's eyes, so he changed the subject. "What is this new story you wish to write? And why?"

Mellonin smiled again. "Partly it is all this talk of elven ships sailing west. Mellondu often speaks of Amroth's ship. But elves are not the only ones that sail. I think I shall tell the tale of a Numenorean voyage, of the Dunedain."

Lindo's eyes sparked. "Really."

She hid a smile. "Not that I can spare the time, of course, but still. I can feel the characters coming to life."

Lindo's half-pint arrived; he paid for it and sat back. "I sailed with a Dunedan once. Go on."

Ravion grunted; so that was why Mellonin had sent for the hobbit.

"And Mithadan was his name. And his ship was called The Lonely Star," Mellonin's eyes glowed and she leaned forward. "Tell me more of him."

"I asked you first, " said Lindo, poking a finger at her. "Who are these characters coming to life?"

"I must learn more of ships first."

"Tell me who they are!" Lindo did not budge.

"All right. Elendil's fleet... Tall ships and tall kings, three times three. You know the rhyme?" They nodded. "This is not the story of Elendil. It is the story of the man at the tiller, and the men who steered the ship."

Ravion blinked. "Does not the man at the tiller steer the ship?"

"He obeys commands, he does not choose her course," said Lindo. "The officers do that, by the captain's will."

"Exactly. But this tillerman has a broken heart."

"Did not they all?" said Ravion.

Mellonin had not thought of that. "Well I know they all grieved the downfall of Numenor. But the tillerman's grief was sown before that."

"By whom?"

Mellonin blinked. "I do not know." She gave an embarassed little laugh, and shrugged. "I only know he is heartbroken."

"Perhaps his previous captain broke him, " Ravion growled. Mellonin winced.

Lindo shrugged. "Perhaps he served under a Black Numenorean. Perhaps your tillerman was part of the force that invaded Valinor."

"Perhaps, " said Mellonin. "But I do not know. I only know the officers do not understand his grief."

"Officers? Ah. So we have Elendil's fleet of nine ships. Our ship has a fearful and brokenhearted sailor at the tiller; and-- officers. They are...?"

"Weary and hardworking and determined to be brave. Too hardworking to have much compassion on the tillerman. But what if the tillerman keeps making small mistakes?"

"Small mistakes."

"Perhaps not quite finishing things right. Or off at the tiller by a few degrees, that sort of thing. So that in the dark, they lose sight of the rest of the fleet."

"That is no small mistake, " said Ravion.

Lindo shifted in his seat. "The drowning of Numenor... Elendil's fleet was scattered, was it not? I saw the drowning of Beleriand; one might lose one's way or one's ship with no mistakes at all. But go on. No mercy from the officers?"

"And the tillerman is breaking, slowly," she replied. "And so are the things he is supposed to take care of, because he is too distraught to make sure the little things are correct. He has little strength left."

Lindo studied her. Captain Mithadan had been fierce about many "small" things. "So the more mistakes he makes..."

"The angrier the officers become, and the more the tillerman's heart is pushed to the breaking. Only they have nowhere to go but forward."

"So," said Ravion, "what happens when the ship starts to break?"

"Well," said Mellonin, "I am not sure what will break first, his heart or his ship."

"If they got separated, they have a palantir?" said Ravion.

"This was the ship carrying the White Tree. No palantir, " said Mellonin firmly. "But Elendil was aboard."

Lindo said, "Surely Elendil kept a palantir."

Mellonin primly shook her head in turn. "No. No Palantir."

"But look here, " Ravion replied. "They made it. All nine ships came to Middle Earth. It cannot have been so bad."

"Driven by the wind and tossed," murmured Lindo. "They made landfall up and down the coast of Lindon. No captain wants to be at the mercy of the wind. So what happens to our tillerman?"

"Over the side with him," said Ravion.

"You cannot mean that!" said Mellonin.

"They might, " said Ravion gloomily.

Lindo disagreed. "Able-bodied sailors are not cast away. Besides, there was nothing Black about Elendil."

"But the captain and his officers...?" said Ravion.

"...were not Black Numenoreans either. They would bow to Elendil," finished Lindo.

Here Mellonin leaned forward; this was what she wanted. "So if Captain Mithadan had been in Elendil's place...?"

Lindo lifted his half-pint. "Mithadan would not let the broken man fester."

"But the tillerman was not visibly broken, " said Ravion. "Was he?"

"No, he hid his grief," Mellonin said.

"So how would Mithadan have known?"

"The officers were discontent, and so Mithadan would have known," said Lindo evenly.

Ravion shook his head. "The officers knew that he was making mistakes. Stupid mistakes. That does not mean a broken heart."

"But if it does, " said Lindo, "it takes more than discipline and anger to find the brokenness. If the tillerman is a good man, you fight for him. Mithadan would have."

"How?" said Ravion. "And how would he even have known that he was broken?"

Lindo smiled sadly, shrugged, and then burst out laughing. "Why, if I knew that, I would be a sea captain, " he said.

Mellondu sat bolt upright. "Do you not know how he would know?" Ravion looked equally dissatisfied.

Lindo sobered, and spread his hands. "I am a loremaster! Mithadan had a way with his men that I could never have. He had a good head and a good heart, and he knew how to use them well. That is rare, I guess, even among navies and armies."

"So," said Ravion. "Mithadan would take charge of the tillerman and... do what?"

"No, " said Lindo. "Mithadan would take the weary officers aside, strengthen them, and show them how to lead the tillerman."

"But the tillerman is broken."

Lindo nodded. "And it will take much more than a beer, or a night of drinking, to put him back together. Broken trust is a difficult thing, is it not? Perhaps taking orders from a Black Numenorean is more horrible than we can imagine; with orcs you know they are rotten through and through; but in a Black Numenorean there might have been enough nobility left to confuse a good man. What happened to the tillerman before he joined Elendil?" He shuddered, thinking of Gamba's ordeal. "Human sacrifice, dark sorcery... or was he just swept up in the invasion of Valinor?"

Mellonin shook her head. "I do not know that part of the tillerman's story. I do not even know whether it was the Black Numenoreans."

Ravion grimaced. "Without knowing what his story is, how will Mithadan train the officers to care for him?"

"That I do not know," said Lindo. "I am a loremaster, and no healer. Neither was Mithadan a healer; he was a captain, and a leader of men. But Elendil was a king, and the hands of a king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known."

"But I thought, " said Mellonin, "that you would know what Elendil would have done."

"No, only what Mithadan would have done," Lindo replied. "He would have strengthened the weary officers, perhaps teaching them when to wield mercy. As for the tillerman, if it was healing he needed, he would have found it at the hands of the king. "

"Kings are busy men," said Mellonin.

"Seamen are valuable," replied Lindo. "Besides, Elendil had four ships-- and according to your story, three of them were nowhere to be seen. He had time for the tillerman."

"Oh, dear, " said Mellonin. "Mithadan would not deal with the tillerman, but Elendil would. Even though he far outranked the officers in between?"

"But not as an officer," said Lindo. "As a healer. And as an officer, he would not neglect training the younger officers, even as Mithadan would have."

"It makes sense, " said Ravion. "Elessar still goes to the houses of healing."

"It doesn't make sense to me, " said Mellonin. "Not yet."

[mark12_30]

"What doesn't make sense to me," said Lindo, "is Elendil not keeping a Palantir. And I am not so convinved that Elendil's ship carried the White Tree."

Mellonin sat back in her chair and waited, trying not to scowl.

"I propose, " said Lindo, "a visit to the library."

Mellonin brightened. "Very well."

It was Ravion's turn to scowl. "Must we?"

"There is no need for you to come," said Mellonin hurriedly.

Ravion snorted. "No doubt I would ruin your fun?" He laughed. "Well, I would. So go to your library. And I shall go to the docks. I have never lingered there."

Mellonin smiled. "Now I wish I could go both places!"

They filed out. Drowsily spreading their leaves in the sunshine, three gnarled trees-- an oak, a beech, and a willow-- guarded the front of the inn.

"Wonderful, shaggy old trees, " said Lindo. "Marvellous."

Ravion shrugged. "They weren't here a year ago." He headed down towards the gate, and they turned up the street.

[mark12_30]

"So Isildur's ship bore the White Tree, " said Mellonin. She couldn't really be unhappy about it.

"And no word of who had the palantiri. They could have all been on one ship for all the records say, " conceded Lindo. "Although I cannot imagine such short-sightedness-- er, your pardon. Still, whether they knew where the other ships were or not, it made no difference. Their sails were torn and their masts were snapped; utterly at the mercy of the sea they were tossed to the western shores of Middle-earth. Small mistakes had no bearing on the ruin of Numenor or the escape of the Faithful."

"Then I have no tale to tell."

Lindo re-stacked the parchments. "Not at sea. And your tillerman cannot have been part of the invasion of Valinor, for by order of his father, Elendil's nine ships bode apart, waiting on the eastern shore. So we still do not know what broke the tillerman. But the fleet of the Faithful waited on the eastern shore of Numenor for some time, before the great wave fell and they were driven eastward. Perhaps yours is a shipyard tale, and not the story of a voyage."

Her disappointment was plain. "What's the fun in that?"

"I do not know, " said Lindo. "And neither will you, if you let that stop you."

"Hmph, " said Mellonin. Then, "I wonder how Ravion is getting along down at the docks."

"At the shipyard, you mean?"

She glared at him, and they replaced the parchments on the shelves. She lingered over the last sheaf, straightening it.

"So many questions. They don't even name the ships."

Lindo turned to the door. "There is time to dream."

[mark12_30]

The hobbit, the loremistress, and the ranger had departed, and the inn was echoingly quiet once again.

Nose twitching, the mouse explored under their table. They had left no crumbs. Nor had they left any droplets of beer, for which the mouse felt a little sad; he had noticed that he slept well after drinking the strange-tasting drops.

There had been a man at the window, staring in from under the trees. Perhaps he would return, and drop some crumbs. Or bring some friends who would drop some crumbs. The mouse sat up, and sniffed, and rubbed his face with his paws.

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry lay curled up in a corner near the fireplace, a large rug wrapped around here. She had drifted into a long, deep sleep after her dancing, sensing the heady expectation which the rain had brought to the atmosphere but too overwhelmed to stay awake and respond to it. She hadn't even caught the conversations between several of the Inn's customers, so tired was she.

But now she felt a movement at her feet, pulling at the blanket. Was it time so soon to wake up, she wondered? She tried to sleep some more and ignored the patter of paws up the rug over her legs, but the movement was insistent. She could no longer hear the rain outside.

[Nogrod]

Suddenly Bêthberry heard the rain again, even if it was the cold wind dancing inside that awakened her in the first place. Nogrod slammed the door closed as soon as he was inside to keep the weather outside. It took a moment for the warmth of the hall to surround the people inside again.

Nogrod glanced around and nodded to everyone inside and then took off his soaked jacket and boots leaving them beside the door. After getting himself a goblet of warm wine spiced with honey, cardamon and cloves he took a free comfychair from near the fireplace and sat down. Slowly stirring the hot drink with a spoon and sniffing the flavour for a moment he finally met the few questioning eyes.

"Eh, yeah, I'm Nogrod, from up north... I thought..." he was quiet for a while like trying to find the right words to say what he meant to say.

"I'm Bêthberry, nice to meet you Nogrod", a woman welcomed him from the corner beside the fireplace.

"Oh, thank you." Nogrod answered gaining a few moments to formulate what he had in his mind.

"I was just thinking that maybe it was a high time for me to find company from here... I mean my little birds have just flown out from their nest and I've been quite curious as to how others feel about it..." He took a sip from the hot drink and gazed at the fire. "I mean is it usual to feel both empty and happy, is it usual to feel proud of what time does and betrayed by time at the same time?"

[Mnemosyne]

The door slammed open again, with another gust of wind and rain. In stepped two small figures, their cloaks and hoods thoroughly plastered to their forms by the rain. The one on the right made a strange thumping noise, suggesting by its gait a crutch. As soon as the door was shut (no easy feat), the other helped her out of her cloak, revealing a hobbit in her early thirties with dark brown ringlets and a crutch under her right arm. She, in turn, unfastened the clasp at the other's neck--a male, this one, a good head taller, with fairer hair.

Sodden cloaks draped over their arms, they looked momentarily back outside, where the rain was still raging, then walked over to a corner and wrung out their cloaks there. "Awnings," he said to her. "You'd think they'd have heard of them down here."

The woman laughed as water spilled about her foot. "Awnings don't look particularly grand, though, do they, Alaric? And much good they'd do us in this kind of wind!"

When the cloaks were as dry as they could be expected to be, Alaric turned around and noticed, for the first time, the presence of others in the inn. "See, Kira?" he said, touching her on the arm. "I told you it wasn't deserted!"

"Yes," said Kira, "but it's terribly quiet." Nogrod and Bethberry were talking in one corner, but they could see no one standing behind the bar.

Alaric shrugged, and walked to the two people sitting by the fire. "Excuse me," he said. "Do you know who is the proprietor of this inn? We need a room for the night--preferably on the ground floor, if you can call land this high up 'ground.'"

[Bêthberry]

'He has warm, quick and bright eyes, this stranger from the north,' thought Bethberry as she was called away from her sleep. It was as much the aroma of the man's mulled wine that finally woke her as his words. She felt a nudging at her feet and looked down to see an expectant wee mousey patiently waiting. While answering Nogrod's question, she searched her pockets to find the crumbs of bread she usually kept there for the animals.

"I suppose how one feels about time's effect depends on whether one looks behind or forward, or simply takes each day and moment for what it offers," she replied, with a slight grin.

Any further reply was halted by the arrival of a very drenched couple. "Why,' wondered Bethberry again to herself, 'couldn't we all enjoy the anachronism of umbrellas, which had been so plentiful in The Shire at one time?'

"I'm afraid the Innkeeper has been called away, so we are making do as best we can. There is mulled wine here and food in the kitchen. You both look like you could use some warming up. I think you can help yourself and do as Nogrod here did, leave some coin on the counter. I'm Bethberry, by the way. And you are?"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A hooded head peered into the room, and the door, held firmly against the wind, closed quickly behind another cloaked figure. Estelyn looked around the room, taking in the people and the fire, and removed her wet cloak, shaking it gently before hanging it up on a hook. She smiled when she saw Bêthberry.

"Hello, my friend!" she exclaimed, holding out both hands to grasp those of the other woman. "No greeting hug today - I'm drenched!"

She walked to the fireplace, where the pot with mulled wine stood, and poured herself a beaker. Then she said, "I had hoped to find you here, Bêthberry! Will you introduce me to your drinking companion?"

Her friend turned to the man and said, "Of course - this is Nogrod, from the north. He asked if we feel of two minds like he does when the young fledgelings fly from the family nest."

"That is a good question," Estelyn answered. "Alas, I cannot reply properly, for I have no experience of my own in this matter. Yet it is often so, that change brings both joy and sorrow, for we must let go of one thing to have room for another."

She then turned to the two hobbits. "We do not often see Periannath in Gondor, though perhaps more than in earlier times. What brings you here?"

[Mnemosyne]

Alaric nodded distractedly at Bethberry's statements. Evidently he was still feeling the effects of the weather. "Yes, food and wine would not go amiss at the moment, though I doubt I'll be able to reach the counter as... Nogrod? ... did. Oh, and my name is Alaric Took, and this is my wife, Kira."

Kira stepped forward and nodded her head at each of the other two guests--for some reason, outside of the Shire and Bree few had heard of the custom of hand-shaking. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Bethberry and Nogrod."

The door opened, and another lady entered the room, helped herself to a drink, and spoke. "We do not often see Periannath in Gondor, though perhaps more than in earlier times. What brings you here?"

Alaric was at the fireplace, reaching up to follow Estelyn's example, so it was left for Kira to speak. "What brings us here? There are many answers to that, and each one's longer to tell than the last. The shortest one, though, is that we're looking for the Thain's Book, the copy of the Histories that made its way to Gondor long ago, and we want to make a copy of it, since our original perished nearly twenty years ago and none of our own copies are complete. But for now, we're just looking for a place to stay for the night, out of this dratted weather."

Alaric pressed a cup of mulled wine into her hand and she sipped at it appreciatively. "That sounds about like the whole of it. Now, what's this about food in the kitchen? I, at least, am famished, and if there are some step-stools, I'd like to rectify that shortly."

[Nogrod]

Nogrod was just mulling at what Bêthberry had said when the two halflings made their entrance. He nodded to the halflings only to be caught up with yet another person coming in. After Estelyn had took her goblet of wine and given him some more food for thought he was forced to concentrate on the two hobbits again.

It was like they were two children with the hassle and buzz about them. It was dear memories time... Oh, the energy of the young..., he thought to himself while mulling about the comments Estelyn and Bethberry had made.

He raised his goblet towards the hobbits "To the health of all Periannath..."

After taking a short sip he glanced at the two: "I know nothing about any "Book of Tháin"... and I don't know anything about this place either as this is the frist time I'm here, but like Bêthberry said, I think you could fill your appetite from the kitchen, just leaving a coin or two to the counter when you leave?" He looked at the two women who seemed to be more at ease with the place and found them nodding.

With that he turned around to the two ladies. He toyed with the goblet for a moment before getting to it.

"Well, I thank you for your reasoned words, but to be frank, I'm actually not having that kind of a problem with myself... It's actually more like the contrary - if there can be a contrary to the middle-road?" He took a deep draught from the cup and then set it down to the table in front of him.

He smiled, but in a way one was not sure what it meant - maybe not even he himself. It seemed genuine though.

"I mean, I'm more than happy about it, I'm proud of it even if I can't claim to reap the laurels there... but something bangs in the back of my head saying I should mourn it. And I actually do feel like it every now and then."

He looked at the ladies, not sure if he had made his point understandable.

He frowned and leaned back on his chair.

[Envinyatar]

‘Whoa up, now, darlins! We’re here, I do believe.’ Rusco set the brake on the small wagon and wrapped the well oiled leather reins about the brake handle. He hopped down, the water puddled up on the stone path splashing up the sides of his boots. The rain soaked his hair and dripped steadily down the collar of his now soggy cape.

He came round to where Whitefoot and Twitch stood, stamping their hooves. ‘Should have worn my oilskins and hat, eh?’ The mules nodded their shaggy heads up and down as if to agree. ‘Won’t hear the end of it from Signy, will I?’ He chuckled, picturing his wife, hands on hips as she would greet him – a thick towel for his hair, a big warm blanket to wrap him round, tsking and shaking her head as she reminded him she’d told him so, hadn’t she just! ‘Be just a bit, boys,’ he told them. ‘It’s our last delivery.’ Reaching deep in an inner pocket of his cape, he fetched out two small apples. ‘Here you go!

Rusco went to the big oak door at the rear of the inn and rapped loudly. No one answered. He tried the handle and found that it not locked. ‘Well, then, I’ll just set the two barrels in the kitchen.’

The room was dark, save for the banked fire in the kitchen hearth. He set the barrels in a corner near the entryway to the common room. There was some small light showing under the door there and he thought he heard voices beyond. Nudging the door open slightly, he peeked his head through.

‘Anyone here,’ he called out. ‘It’s Rusco. I’ve brought the late winter’s ale I’d promised . . .’

[mark12_30]

Behind Rusco, the big oak door at the rear of the inn swung open, creaking. Mellonin frowned, a little; Morien the innkeeper had always insisted on well-greased, quiet hinges. But she spoke to Rusco cheerily and gave him a sweet smile. "Thank you! Perhaps when word gets out that your ale has arrived, we'll have a few more visitors! There is room for your pair in the stable, around the side. There are some rags hanging on the last stall door you can wipe them down with. Wash the rags when you are done and hang them back on the door as you found them. Your name?"

"Rusco, " he replied, and she nodded.

She bustled past, opened a cupboard, found a jar of oil, and went back to the oak door hinges, and dripped some oil on them til they were quiet, and then replaced the jar of oil. She motioned Rusco out to the stables, and showed him where to put his cart and harnesses. "The hay is free, but if you want grain for the mules, it comes at a price."

Rusco shook his head. "No fear, ma'am, Whitefoot and Twitch are easy keepers."

"You'll join us soon, then," she said. "Do come back into the common room. I saw the loremistress headed this way. Let me know if you need anything else." She hurried back into the inn, and went inside, and through into the common room. Her dark hair, half braided and half cut short, was growing out, and she shook away the wisps that covered her grey-green-blue eyes.

Morien the innkeeper was not there; apparently he had not come back from his journey to the southen vineyards yet. But there were Mistress Bethberry, Loremistress Estelyn, a man from the north, and-- my goodness!-- two halflings! She smiled with delight as she stepped into the rim of the firelight.

"Can I fetch anything?" she said with a curtesy, as Loremistress Estelyn met her gaze.

Estelyn raised an eyebrow. "You'll join us, " she said, "when you may, for there are some questions being raised that a young loremistress might want to hear."

"Oh-- oh, yes, Milady, " said Mellonin with another curtesy.

Estelyn waved her off. "Bethberry says there is food in the kitchen?"

"Stew and bread, Mellonin. Mind you the bowls are cold."

Mellonin swept into the kitchen and put six empty earthen bowls in the hearth to warm, and then as an afterthought fetched a seventh for the man with the pair of mules. Just in time; he came in through the back door, and eyed the bowls hopefully.

"Wash your hands, " she said, waving to the pump handle. He nodded, and did a fair job of it. "There is bread in the oven; put it on this plate; cloths over there, knife there. " She ladled hot soup from the hanging kettle into the rapidly warming bowls. Soon she had a tray of four bowls, and Rusco had the bread and the knife on the plate. She fetched seven spoons, and Rusco followed Mellonin through the door into the common room. She gave the stew to the shivering halflings first, then to the man from the north, and the fourth to the slightly startled Rusco. Then she returned with the three other bowls, served Bethberry and Estelyn, picked up her own spoon, and all seven set happily to their stew and bread.

[Mnemosyne]

"Thank you," Alaric said to Mellonin, after a few judicious mouthfuls of stew. Kira, on the other hand, ate at a more sedate pace, though from time to time she stole half-smiling glances at her husband.

"This is quite good," said Alaric, after a few minutes' silent eating on the part of the hobbits. "I only have to wonder..."

"Your pardon," said Kira. "But the farther we've gotten from home, the more finicky Alaric's been, and by 'finicky' I mean 'still willing to eat whatever's put in front of him while articulating how it could have been better.'"

"Really, it is fine," said Alaric. "It just comes of missing a kitchen of one's own."

"Yes, because clearly you were cooking all the time at Great Smials..."

Alaric cleared his throat. "That's neither here nor there. What I mean to say, Miss, is thank you." He scraped the bottom of the bowl with the last bit of his bread. "Might there... might there happen to be any seconds? I don't mean to trouble you," he added quickly. "In fact, before we settle in here any further, I, at least, would like to change into some drier clothes." They had set their packs, which fortunately looked more watertight than their cloaks, on the floor out of the way of the fire. "And a room really would be helpful, since we'd like to stay here for the night."

[mark12_30]

Mellonin smiled at Alaric, and then giggled, and then composed herself again, as Estelyn hid a smile.

"Which would youl ike first? The stew or the room? The stew will still be hot when you have changed, and you might enjoy it more."

Alaric liked that idea. "The room, please."

"I'll show you the room. Your bowls of stew will be ready when you come back down." Mellonin set aside her half-finished bowl (on the hearth, to keep it warm), snatched up a lit candle, and led Alaric and Kira out of the common room. She paused at the stairs. Beyond the thumping of Kira's crutch, these were halflings, and she vaguely recalled a dislike of heights. "Would you prefer a ground-floor room?"

Alaric bowed slightly, and Mellonin turned. She led them down a hallway, opened a door, and handed Alaric the candle. "You'd like firewood?"

"Please."

Mellonin hurried back down the hall, fetched a canvas, put moss, a handful of leaves, kindling and firewood in it, and took it back to the room. They had hastily changed, and their wet things were on the hearth. She helped them prepare the fire, and they were lighting it with the candle as she hastened back to the common room. Nogrod and Rusco had finished their stew as well. She hesitated, and then wrapped a cloth around the haldle of the kettle, and brought the whole kettle out into the common room, and hung it in the fireplace there. Returning with the ladle, she served Rusco and Nogrod, refilled the halflings' bowls leaving them in the hearth to warm, and then settled happily back to her own stew.

She turned to Nogrod, between spoonfuls. "What brings you to the Seventh Star?"

[Nogrod]

Nogrod took a draught of Rusco's winter ale and felt the full taste in his mouth. It was good; the ale, and how he felt right now.

"Hah, it's a long story..." he replied to Mellonin while turning his gaze on her. "But cutting it short, let's say that when you are a child you wonder about the world as it is brand new and amazing to you every day, full of new things, things to learn and experience. When you're a teenager you feel like you own the world, you know how it is and how it should be - even if you don't know what you yourself are. Then you get children and you care for the world, you carry the burden of it for your children and the coming generations... but then, after your children fly out? Well then you become a child again and wonder about the world once more with the difference that you have slowly learned something about yourself..."

Nogrod was toying with his pint. "Although I'm not sure about that last one... maybe it is not that we have "learnt" things about ourselves as things that have already been, maybe we're just becoming someone through age and experience?"

He laid the pint on to the table next to the chair and took a spoonful of the hot stew, carefully blowing it to make it cooler. "So I'm kind of looking for things to surpise me..." he said smiling and then took the spoonful of hot stew, nodding with the taste of it. "This is good..."

[Mnemosyne]

"Feeling any better?" Alaric asked Kira as he coaxed the fire into further life.

Kira pulled up the hem of her skirt to expose her malformed right foot and slowly wiggled her toes in front of the fire. "I think," she said. "It's going to take it a while before it realizes we aren't out in the rain anymore."

"Let me help," said Alaric. He turned and knelt in front of her, then gently took her foot in his hands, warmed by the hearth, and began to rub it in the places that didn't hurt. "Better?" he said.

Kira nodded. "We should probably let our things dry, though, instead of hogging all the heat for ourselves. And I wouldn't mind sitting down."

There were a few wooden chairs in the room, but they looked hard and unforgiving compared to the large Man-sized bed. "Should we ask for a step-stool this time?" said Kira.

"I think we can climb this one," said Alaric. Getting a running start (not, in Kira's estimation, that he needed one), he reached up and hoisted himself on the bed. "See?" he said.

Kira only chuckled to herself, and allowed him to lift her onto the bed next to her. The way their feet dangled over the edge reminded her, as it always did, of when she was a child. She leaned her head on her husband's shoulder as he slid his hand around her waist.

"Do you think they'll ask us about the Book here? They've got a much better chance of knowing about it here, especially with that talk of lore."

"I don't know," said Kira.

"Have you thought about what you'll say to them?"

"No."

"If it's any trouble to you--"

"I know," said Kira. "You'd tell them for me. But I might as well do it. It'll be good practice for later, if we get to meet the King."

"You're right."

"You, on the other hand, can tell them all about how we found out about this copy, diamond shirt-studs and all!"

Alaric began to laugh. "That rascally fellow! Do you think he ever stayed here?"

"I don't know. It's so hard to tell age with these stone buildings. He didn't include it on his list of 'ales you absolutely must try,' I'd have remembered the name. But that doesn't rule out the others."

"Or any others who might have visited before the Falling-Out."

Kira shivered. Alaric responded by dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. "Well, we're fixing that, now, aren't we?"

"If it ever can be fixed."

"Come," said Alaric. "Let's rejoin the company; it won't do you any good to stew right now. Stew, on the other hand, will do us both good!" He hopped down from the bed, and then lifted Kira and set her on the floor. Kira kept her arms around his neck, though.

"What is it?" he said.

"You've just been very good to me, is all."

"Well, I should hope you wouldn't have married me if I weren't!"

"I don't know--looks and money cover a good deal of faults..."

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry gratefully downed spoonfuls of the stew while listening to all that was going on. She hadn't realised how cold and hungry she was. 'Mellonin certainly knows how to keep a good pot on the fire,' she thought appreciatively.

"This should warm you from the rain, no?" she asked the Loremistress, happy to see her friend once more here at the Seventh Star. Then, in response to the man from the north, she asked,

"And so you decided there was nothing left to surprise you in the north, but there might be in the south?"