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It is said that in the Village of Beer, all roads lead to the Inn. This is, of course, because there is only one road in Beer and it leads unerringly to the front door of the Muddled Mirth-renowned house of quaffing and less savory activities known as the Nancing Bow-ny Inn. Indeed, over its well-used portal is a banner on which is portrayed an Elf with long blonde hair and a bow, who, due to his fine coiffure and painted and manicured nails, could only be described as engaging in the activity of nancing.
The Zagat's guide to northeast Muddled Mirth and places nearby, describes the Nancing Bow-ny as an establishment of awesome gastronomical and epicurean delight, with fabulous decor designed by the dwarves of Hazard-Boom and service that is more than solicitous. Among its specialties are the Lembas-rubbed trout, the leg of lamb slow-cooked in Dwarvish herbs and the almost legendary dessert squirrel. However, what the guide fails to mention is that the Nancing Bow-ny, being located in a... to be polite about matters... low-income neighborhood, serves these savory dishes only in a small penthouse for which reservations are required two years in advance. Thus, the casual traveller and the local rabble are relegated to a pub known as Downstairs at the Nance, where the cuisine, service and atmosphere are more...austere.
As the Itship approached the Inn, its door swung open and three very thoroughly soused Hobbits staggered out. One held a greasy turkey leg (a specialty of Downstairs at the Nance) and another a basket of what appeared to be mostly peanut shells which he was rummaging through in an unsuccessful attempt to locate an uncracked nut. The third held a broken mug which he dropped on the doorstep before he himself dropped into a puddle of mud which lay beside the entryway.
"I thought you researched this place," hissed Pimpi to Vogonwë. The earstwhile Elf waved a copy of the Zagat's guide about while his jaw flapped without emitting a sound.
While the feminine segment of the Itship hesitated, exchanging dubious looks and sniffing doubtfully at the aroma wafting from the door, Earnur decided that the time had come to take a positive outlook on matters (and get his saddle-sore rump off his horse). "Looks swell!" he cried. "Let's go in!"
There being no immediate objection (there being no other viable option) the Itship turned its assortment of steeds and wagon (Leninia had graciously replaced the original cart which had been destroyed in the fall into her dungeon) over to the stablehands and trooped in.
"Quaint," sniffed Kuruharan as he took stock of the straw covered-dirt floor, the rough-hewn wooden furniture and the stuffed elk head (complete with hat hanging on its antlers) which adorned the wall behind the bar. "At least they have beer," he added. The common room was half-empty (or half full) with a motley assortment of Hobbits, Dwarves, seedy-looking Rangers and a couple of down-on-their-luck Elves, none of whom gave the Gallowship a second glance as they entered. They secured a table and sat as a waitress wordlessly tossed a pile of menus upon its surface. She quickly took their drink orders, then after beverages were delivered, disappeared for twenty minutes before returning to inquire whether they wanted "eats" or were they just going to "get bombed"?
"Quaint," repeated Kuruharan, though he did not turn down several helpings of 'taters, stew and several roasted birds loosely described as "chicken".
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