[Lalwendë]

The horse and rider came to a halt as they neared the inn. The horse was snorting and sweating heavily, and the rider was not in a much better condition. He had been riding hard all day with only the briefest of halts, and those only taken to allow both himself and the horse a few minutes to catch their breath. The rain which was now falling was welcome to him, and he had pushed back his hood to better appreciate the cool raindrops.

The evening was closing in early due to the rain, and he had seen the lights being lit up ahead. Though he had a good idea of where he needed to get to, he had stopped to ask a passing Hobbit all the same. He did not want to make a mistake and come to the wrong Inn, not after riding all day on this errand. To him, it was a matter of urgency that he get to the Inn as soon as possible, and to that end he had saddled up his best horse.

Pegram’s keen eyes were alert for a suitable place to dismount and tie the horse up. He hoped for a stable of some kind, for the stallion had been an expensive purchase and he did not want to lose him to some scoundrel horse thief. It was the kind of horse which made other men look on in envy, the horse he had yearned for most of his life and finally had been able to buy a few years ago. It was a young man’s steed, but one which few young men would be able to afford. He cared for the stallion well and the creature’s coat shone when Pegram took him out for a ride; when he crossed paths with another man on such a steed, knowing, appraising glances were exchanged.

He was relieved when he saw a stable, but the place was in near darkness and unattended. Leading the horse in, he looked for a secure corner and fastened the reigns to a beam with an intricate knot before casting around for a bucket of water and bale of hay. He gave the horse a quick wipe down with a soft cloth, as he always did, no matter the urgency of his business, and straightening his clothes, went out towards the door of the Inn itself.

Pegram was a man of middle age, prosperous, and stout with good living. He was not overly tall, but he was well built and vigorous in his movements. He had a head of thick, rich brown hair, and a full beard. His clothes were simple but betrayed a knowledge of his taste for the finer things in life. His smock shirt was of white linen, cut to fit his frame exactly, and his breeches were made of fine green moleskin. Pegram wore a matching green cloak, cut from a textured wool, and a pair of sturdy but delicately stitched gloves fashioned from brown doeskin. He carried a knife for a weapon, concealed with a pouch of money on his belt. The weapon had never been used, and it was primarily to protect his money that he kept it, but, as he often said to himself, “Let them come, let them try to get it from my hands“.

The early evening light of the inn shone through the windows and within he could see a hearty crowd, a scene he particularly liked, but then he checked himself, remembering that these were strangers. The smell of the good beer hit him and he breathed it in appreciatively, as it were a fine scent. And fine perfume this was to Pegram, for he was a distiller by trade.

He pushed the door open smoothly, and drew himself up to his full height, his chin proudly thrust forwards. He looked about the crowded room with the air of a man experienced in the ways of public houses, taking in the different groups of people, and not least of all, the bar itself. Allowing himself a few moments to look upon the pumps and barrels with genuine interest, he returned to searching the room. He noted that it was filled with all manner of folk, men and Elves alongside the Hobbits he had expected, and then saw the very person he had come here for. His light eyes darkened, and a growl almost came from his throat, and he strode purposefully over.

***

When she saw Andwise being bundled hastily away from the table, Jinniver knew that he had made a mistake in mentioning this Shivaree. But she quickly realised what this was all about, and though she had been ready to hear a good ghost story, she found herself laughing at the truth of the matter. She could well imagine the commotion that was going to happen after Derufin and Zimzi’s wedding, not least because of the high spirited hobbit lads. She hoped she would be invited to stay fro the event, once her work was done.

Thoughts of the task she still had ahead of her made her quiet for a moment. Her brow creased as a brief worry entered her mind. What if the plants did not arrive in the morning? How was she to make a garden without them? If they were late, then she would have to work quickly, but what if they did not come at all? She caught her breath in a moment of panic, and reached for the jug of stout again.

“Best not think of that”, Jinniver muttered to herself, taking a gulp of the dark, heady brew. She took up her pipe with haste and as she puffed out a smoke ring, began to feel herself relax once again. The sound of Andwise shouting outside, as the lads attempted to get him home in one piece, drifted in through the windows and she tried to stifle a giggle. She took another long drink, and decided to fill her tankard once more. This was a good ale, and she had started to get a taste for it. She didn’t stop to think how drunk it had made Andwise.

Jinniver’s eyes were a little clouded as the drink took hold on her quickly, and she found herself feeling hot, but extremely content. She laughed aloud as she heard what Cook threatened to do. And then she felt cold as a firm hand was placed on her shoulder and a gruff voice said “Jinniver!” meaningfully into her ear.