Derufin stepped up closer to Aman and, leaning in, took a deep breath. Somewhat ruffled, the Innkeeper moved back a pace, a perplexed look on her face. ‘Just checking,’ he said, an impish glint in his eyes as he drew back and grinned at her.
Aman raised her brows at him, and lifted her chin in a defiant manner. Her eyes narrowed at his grinning visage. ‘What?!’
He chuckled, raising with his right hand in a gestured of feigned drinking from a tankard. ‘Thought you might have been hitting the ale early, m’lady. You called this place an inn in Bree. Too fond of the Prancing Pony, I think!’ He winked, and moved past her, stepping into the kitchen.
‘Cook!’ he cried, his voice ringing loud in the high beamed room. ‘You’ve a hungry carpenter here. No, make that two hungry carpenters. Best feed us well, else we drop from hunger in the midst of doing your pantry!’
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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