[Child of the 7th Age]

Lis stood outside the front entrance of the Inn with one foot lightly poised on the bottom step and the other still firmly planted in the ground. She was having trouble deciding exactly what to do. She'd peered through the window and gotten a brief glimpse of the customers inside. The building was packed to the gills with guests having lunch; the hobbit servers made their way out to the tables with heavy platters of food, set these down before their hungry guests, and then returned to the kitchens to repeat this process all over again.

This part had actually looked quite inviting to Lis. She was extremely hungry. Her mouth watered as she picked up the faint aroma of good pork pies and savory slabs of venison lathered in thick gravy. If she could just mount up her courage to go in and take care of business, she might even stop for a moment to order some lunch.

But there were other things about the Inn that Lis found far less appealing. The place seemed overrun with Elves....a good handful of them, sitting and mooning and taking tiny bits of food in that soulful way that most Elves have. She imagined that some of them were moaning loudly about their tragic past. Lis shuddered slightly in disapproval. Her family had had its own share of troubles, but they did not go around informing all of Arda about the particular miseries that they had faced.

Her father had mentioned nothing about Elves when he talked to her about the Shire, just the Little Folk with their funny manners and good hearts and slightly silly way of doing things. Even more alarming, in all this plethora of Men and Hobbits and Elves, there did not seem to be a single one of her own people. Perhaps Dwarves were not welcomed in these parts.

Still, she had not come here to win over friends. Somewhere, inside that room, there was someone who knew exactly where her axe was. She scowled and shook her head. What a foolish thing to have done! She would never forgive herself if any harm came to it. It was not just the practical value and intrinsic worth of the weapon, although those things could not be denied. Rather, it had been her father's last present to her, and nothing in Middle-earth could ever replace it.

Steeling up her courage, she felt down for the hilt of the dagger that was strapped tightly to her waist. Hopefully, she would not have to use it. But, if Elves and such proved obstinate, she would not hesitate to strike a blow. Deciding that the direct approach was also the most sensible one, she went barging up the steps, threw the door open, and thrust her body into the midst of the common room. Looking fiercely about from one side to the other, she pounded her clenched fist loudly on the bar and bellowed out her complaint, whoever has my axe had better come forward and return it, or you'll soon see what it means to face the blade of a Dwarf. Her fingers stole unbidden to the hilt of her weapon as she glared stubbornly around the room searching for the culprit.

[ October 10, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]