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The sounds of the wind as it battered about the public house brought news to the two tall figures that trudged down the snow skewed path toward the door. Their walking staffs, dark and heavy from woods far from this northern land crunched against the icy underlayings of the most recent snowfall.
‘And tell me again, my dear Mori, why we’ve come to this grace forsaken place?’ The question hung for a moment in the icy air as the wind stilled itself for a moment. ‘Stamo pulled his heavy fur cloak closer about him only half expecting an answer to his idle complaint.
‘Hush, ‘Stamo. Can you not hear it yourself. There are old things moving in the darkness. Some for good and some for ill . . . and some,’ he said, closing his eyes as his ears took in the night, ‘. . . some neither, but only for themselves.’
‘Stamo shifted on his cold feet, trying to bring some feeling back to the rising numbness of his lower extremities. ‘All I can hear at the moment is the creaking of that old wooden sign. Though now that you speak, I note it’s stopped.’ The small hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he too caught a whiff of something other than the smoke from the pub’s chimney. ‘Best we move ourselves within, I think,’ he said low, nudging his companion in the back with the gnarled knob end of his staff. ‘That is, I don’t relish the thought of a stand off with those “some for ill” creatures you spoke of.’
The heavy oaken door swung open easily at Mori’s touch, and he led them into the entryway. It was warm within, the fire inviting as it crackled merrily in the grate. Stamping the snow from their boots on the thick rushy mats and shaking the snow from their cloaks, they looked about the room.
‘There, that place over there, near the blaze,’ said ‘Stamo, pointing to a table near where three small beings sat. ‘If I move close enough to the heat I think I can thaw these frozen limbs.’ He moved toward his chosen chair and sat down, easing his cloak over the tall chair back. Hiking the thick, dark blue woolen material of his outer robe to his knees he savored the warmth as it began to penetrate his boots and long knit socks.
Mori placed his own cloak over the back of his chair and leaned in toward his companion. ‘I’m going up to the counter to get us some food and drink.’ He eyed ‘Stamo and raised his brow as the man inched his boots closer to the flames. ‘And don’t think about pulling your boots off to get those toes of yours warmer. The stench will drive out those nearby and we’ll both be asked to leave!’
With a warning glare, he stood and walked up to where the ale casks stood. ‘Good sir!’ Mori hailed the innkeeper. ‘Two of those steaming drinks,’ he said, pointing to the mugs the Hobbits were holding. ‘What is it called? It smells wonderful! And would you have something for two cold and weary travelers to fill their bellies with?’ He fished for the pouch in the deep pocket of his indigo robe. And finding it, pulled out a number of oddly marked gold coins. ‘Will this do?’ he said, leaving them in a small heap on the wooden counter. ‘Pleasant place here, The Green Man. Interesting name. Is it a local one, here in the north?’ he went on.
His eyes slid about the room, noting the shutters were latched tight, and the door bore iron holders where a stout beam might be put to secure it. ‘Good,’ he murmured to himself, not wanting the terrors in the darkness to intrude upon this haven.
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