[Morthoron]

It was not that he hated Hobbits. Truthfully, he had never even engaged one in a conversation longer than a brief remark about the weather or to ask directions (which always turned out to be an insufferable chore, considering the Halfling predisposition to long-windedness). But there was something annoying about the paunchy little blighters: in their omnipresent and almost manic cheerfulness; their incessant geneological rambles (I mean, really, how far could they trace their brief ancestries back -- one or two hundred years? Pffft!); their inveterate butchering of Westron, droppin' the g's and losing the 'andles on the 'aitches; and the folksy but addled adages that peppered their glib speech (''After all's gone, nothin' is left", "I don't cotton to conies lest they're skinned and sauteed", "Don't count your barley before it's batched", or some such rot).

No, Amarthanuin did not have any ill-will for the half-witted Halflings, but he couldn't countenance their annoying presence for more than a few hours at a time, and the alloted amount of time that Amarth could bear these plump periannath had reached the frayed edge of forebearance several hours ago. He noticed the Prancing Pony had thinned out dramatically; in fact, all the Hobbits, including the one who seemingly disappeared, were long gone, and only a few drunken sots were left, sprawled and snoring, until the next morn's cock crow. No longer drunk himself, but with a headache to match his annoyance, he wondered how long he had been napping.

Catching the proprietor of the inn, one Barliman Butterbur, at the top of a flight of stairs, Amarth inquired about a room. Butterbur scratched his head for a moment and drawled confusedly, "Well, that's just the thing, beggin' your pardon, kind sir. You see, it's like this: what with the seeming invasion of hooded strangers lurking about, it seems the old inn is piled to the rafters with 'em."

"And...that means...what?" Amarth growled rather sternly.

"Well, one thing pushes out another, as they say." Barliman replied, "and no new is good news."

Amarth bit his lip and stared hard at the innkeep.

"Now, now, no need for all that," Butterbur continued hesitantly, mopping the sweat off his forehead with his apron so that half of his words were muffled in beer-soaked cotton. "It just that there are no rooms left for the big-folk. There, I've said it, and beggin' your pardon and all, but there's just so many rooms to let and so little time to make sure every patron is...ummm....patronized."

Amarth sucked his teeth in exasperation. "So," he sighed, "there are no rooms to let then?"

"Oh no, not at all, I mean, yes, we have rooms, of course we have rooms. It's just that..."

"It's just that, what?"

"Well, you see, there's no rooms for big-folk, and, well, seeing as you're rather on the short side, I was wonderin' -- no offense and beggin' your pardon and all -- if you wouldn't...ummm...all things bein' equal and all, if you wouldn't mind..."

Amarth's ire was growing exponentially, particularly since Butterbur made reference to his height (a sore spot for him, to be sure). "Butterbur, if you don't spit it out, I shall cut out your tongue and nail it to your forehead, for all the good it is doing you now."

Barliman took a deep breath and then rushed through an explanation: "Well,allweseemtohaveatthemomentisanice,cozyHobbit room,ifyoudon'tmind,kindsir."

"A...Hobbit room?"

"Yes...yes sir," Butterbur gasped as if he were in agony.

"Well, I guess that will have to do."

"It will? Why, yes, of course it will," Barliman wheezed in relief. "I'll go roust out that lazy slowcoach Hob to fluff up the pillows, dust off the blankets and throw some new rushes down. It's flea season here in Bree, you know. Can't sleep tight if the bedbugs bite, as we say."

Equally relieved to be done with the fat innkeeper, Amarth nodded and answered, "Very well, Butterbur. In the meantime, I will take a walk outside for a bit."

Not waiting for Butterbur to reply, Amarth wheeled away and headed toward the great oaken door that led to the sodden streets. It had been raining on and off for most of the week, and the cesspool that was Bree was a muddy mire. Careful to keep his boots centered on the wood planks thrown down in a halfhearted attempt to keep passers-by from sinking waist deep in the puddling muck, Amarth tread lightly down the darkened street. He hadn't gotten very far when he espied shadowy figures huddled sinisterly over a body laying in the middle of the street.