[Bêthberry]

Slowly, one of the large wooden doors, cross-hatched with iron bands, swung open with the concerted effort of a woman. She was wrapped in a deep violet cloak and carrying a large, heavy, leather bag. The woman looked weary, pensive, perhaps even dispirited.

It was Bethberry, back from her own lonely quest for Goldberry's song in Middle Earth--a song not heard since Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin wound their way out of the Old Forest. The ancient lays of the River-daughter were being forgotten. Yet now the cold clung in the air like a dank fog, imitating the barrow downs and Goldberry was gone, gone on her own most momentous journey into the dark underground where none could follow, for our sight extends no farther than the horizon. It was time for the Innkeeper to return to her duties here at The Horse, close enough to Fangorn Forest that she could feel the Arda of old, Arda unmarred, as it was also in her home in the Old Forest.

"Brrr," shivered Bethberry. "Cold makes for little inspiration for stories and RPGs. No wonder there is so little productive activity here at The White Horse."

It was obvious that the fires would need to be stoked. Bethberry left her cloak and bag in the small room off the kitchen and came back carrying a large leather sac filled with fatwood sticks and pine cones. She restacked the logs of pine and fir in the large main fireplace, interlarding them with the fatwood sticks for faster kindling and placing pine cones on the top of the fire. The fatwood sticks sputtered and caught, wisping fire up around the logs. The cones had been larded with resin and dried leaves and when they caught fire they threw out glorious colours of carmine, gold, lapus lazuli, azure, and magentas. Bethberry then went to the smaller fireplace in the wordhoard and repeated her ritual, where quickly the light and warmth threw dancing webs around the meadhall. Soon, the faces of all the patrons in The White Horse were lined and linked by a brilliant yellow illumination, a spider web of light and inspiration.

Rising, Bethberry came face to face with Aman, who greeted her warmly with a hug which Bethberry returned fondly. "Aman, my dear, it is good to see you here, but even more interesting to see such possibilities for new characters for you." Aman looked quizzically at the older woman. Bethberry turned and spoke to Jet first and then Obsidian. They whimpered and retreated, clearly aware of their error. "Stay back from the patrons, wolves; they are under my protection. Lie under the sideboard where you can gnaw on bones and scraps. Later I shall expect you to tell me what brought you to such a point." Jet yawned, baring his fangs, but dropped his head on his paws. Obsidian growled a meek defense, "We are not always ourselves. Something or someone binds us." Bethberry nodded to him.

"Watch them carefully, Aman, and see what voices and characters you can give them on a quest."

"I will, but Bethberry, you wouldn't believe it. Barrow Wight was here."

"What? A wight? Barrow Wight himself? No wonder 'tis so cold."

"He's searching for word treasures."

"Aren't we all. Well, as long as he leaves his sword at the door, even the Barrow Wight is welcome here, as long as he recognizes this is a Bombadil establishment." A trace of a smile wrinkled around Bethberry's mouth. "A bit of fear is good for stoking action and imagination. And I can always sing a few songs so silly and so utterly preposterous that even the fearful Barrow Wight must succumb to laughter."

Aman grinned at the thought.

"Tell me, Aman, have any stories developed into games?"

"None yet."

"None? Not any? Not the gwaith-formen's? Have you discussed with Galadel her strange invitation to the Golden Hall? Would Estel or any of our many elves want to accompany her? So many elves! What have elves to do with the Riddermark? Have none sought to find this fabled jewel of which Nardol speaks? Not even Anglachel the merchant?"

Aman shook her head.

"Well, then, I must speak to Kiara. She has a story to tell and a quest. I would like to hear more of it. I hope she will comply, for she can handle a quest here." Bethberry smiled a warm, broad smile in the direction of the young dwarf lass, who she hoped would stay, and then she turned to face everyone in the meadhall.

"Come now, we can't turn The Horse into a rooming house. It is a thundering narrows where river water runs, full of turbulence and ideas and wildly spraying mist which refreshes us all, but the water must flow on or we turn Edoras into a flooded, boggy plain of peat and marsh."

Bethberry looked around, catching every eye with a raised eyebrow.

"The Proposal form will shortly be posted, but you must start your own conversations via PM with those you might want to join you on your quests. Or scribble your rough ideas down on paper for Gandalf the Grey and Susan to read as well. I wonder. Perhaps those who have become too fond of aimless socializing might rediscover some purpose if I sent them to muck out the stalls in the stable."

"But you can't think on empty bellies. Let me see what our cook has in store for us."

Bethberry nodded at several of the patrons as she walked back towards the kitchen, where old Fróma was preparing an extravagant feast. He welcomed her with a squint and a nod and then a sudden, silent hug, which she submitted to, silently holding her nose away from his beery breath but appreciating his unusual sentiment.

An entire side of beef, crusted with peppers and mustard, turned on the spit in one of the fires, which was rimmed with pans of breads baking. In the second fire hung a huge cauldron full of a cream soup made from puréed carrots and parsnips. Bethberry tasted it and, when Fróma wasn't looking, she emptied not one but two bottles of sherry into the cauldron. Casseroles of chicken with currents, rabbit and onion competed for the cauldron with space and the counters were laden with platters of spiced sausages and meat pastries, hard cheeses and olives, pickled mushrooms and beets, wilted cucumbers with radishes, and tureens of salad greens. On the sideboard stood bowls of late fall apples and rare oranges, rhubarb dumplings and berry cobblers, even steamed puddings with sauces sweet or brandied. A heady mixture of aromas hung in the air. Bethberry snuck an orange and Fróma gave her a frown and told her to leave before she ruined his preparations.

"Just make sure there is also enough beer, mead and wine, Fróma, to quench thirst and tea to settle the belly. Oh, yes, and pots of that new bean I've been saving. Coffee it is called."

"Get out," he muttered in retaliation. "It's my kitchen."

Bethberry chortled to herself and then went off to clarify some of the Golden Rules in the Golden Hall of Rohan. In her wake there wafted the scents of cedar and heliotrope.

[ December 10, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]