[Noinkling]

Benat and Cullen

The door to the Inn swung open, and for a brief moment the grey light of a rainy afternoon penetrated the lowlit interior of the common room. There were mutterings as the cold wind swept in and admonitions of ‘Someone shut the door, please!’ One of the servers put down her tray on an empty table, intending to shut the door. Her steps faltered as she neared the open door and heads turned again as darkness filled the entryway.

A giant of a man stood there, his long brown cape blocking the light from the outside. He turned sideways and ducked his head down a bit to enter. He stood blinking for a moment in the entry way, his dark eyes adjusting to the lower level of light.

‘Come in . . . sir,’ the server said in as firm a voice as she could muster. ‘The wind and rain bring a chill to the room. Close the door if you would.’

The man nodded, and turning back to the door began to shut it. ‘Come, Cullen,’ he called out, as he did so, leaving just enough room for a large, grey coated dog to pad in. The two made their way to one of the bigger tables near the front window, the one with a wide, sturdy oak bench.

The patrons along the path to their table eyed the man and dog as they passed. The dog was nearly as tall as a Shire pony, with a short, wiry, dark grey coat. His tail was long and had he wagged it at all would have swept the Hobbits on the nearby benches from their seats. His eyes were as dark as the man’s, and took in the surroundings in an intelligent manner. His nose twitched with the inviting smells of the Inn and its inhabitants, cataloguing them.

His master was taller than any man or Elf for that matter. A homespun tunic was tucked neatly into his long black breeches which in turn were held up by a fine woven, broad rope belt. On his feet he wore not leather boots, but rather some made of thick boiled wool, impervious to the wet; dark blue they were and came to the middle of his calves. In his hand was a stout oaken stick, for walking, many supposed, or perhaps a weapon, too. None other was seen about him. The hood to his cape was thrown back revealing a head of thick dark hair. Removing his wet cloak, a single, long dark braid could be seen, snaking down his back to his waist. And in front was an equally long dark beard, the mustache of it framing his generous mouth, which was now curved in a smile at the server.

‘I’ll just take your cloak . . . sir, and hang it by the door to dry, if you don’t mind,’ said the server, emboldened by the fellow’s seeming good-nature, and the fact that the dog had come up to sniff his her hand and had given it a friendly lick.

‘Lay down, Cullen! And mind your manners,’ the man said, directing the dog to the spot near the table. ‘My name is Benat, little Mistress,’ he said, then, turning back to the server. He handed his cloak to her, chuckling a bit as she handed it on to two of the taller male Hobbits she motioned over. They struggled with the heavy, wet thing, and managed to secure it on one of the pegs by the door. It trailed out a bit and they tucked the extra length of it to the side so no one would trip on it.

‘Now what can I get for you, Master Benat,’ the server asked. ‘And for your companion?’

‘Some ale, if you please, little Mistress,’ he said, his eyes twinkling at the thought of a good drink. ‘And bread, and cheese.’ He declined the offer of a bowl of bean with ham soup, saying that it was not his pleasure to eat meats of any sort. She looked at him a bit oddly, then shrugged her shoulders. A good sized bowl of apple cobbler, though, was agreed to and the server turned toward the kitchen to fetch the fellow’s order.

‘One last thing,’ he said, once she’d delivered his food, and asked if there would be anything else he required. ‘Might you know where Master Bilbo Baggins lives? I’m the grandson of an old acquaintance of his. I’ve brought him a pot of honey from my Granda’s bees. He was quite fond of it, or so the old story goes.’