The Green Dragon

[piosenniel]

Carchmoroth halted as they neared the dark yard of the Inn. Yellow, flickering light shone out through the thick paned windows. And the din of voices from the two-leggeds flowed out in a confusing crescendo and swirled round their listening ears. ‘They are eating and drinking and telling stories.’ he murmured to Dûrêl and Dúgoroth, as he sorted out the words and sounds he heard. ‘That is good.’

He motioned with a nod of his head for them to go round the building as they had planned. The two faded silently into the blackness to the west of the building and disappeared from sight.

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There were screams from the kitchen. And then Miss Violet and the serving girls came flying into the Common Room followed by the gibbering wash-up boy. Dwarin strode quickly to sort out what had frightened them. A thick silence fell over the room behind him as he stood in front of Miss Violet, trying to understand what she was saying to him.

She pointed a single finger, her arm shaking with fear, at something to his rear. He heard the sharp intake of breath of several patrons, and he turned cautiously. The sight of a massive silver-backed, grey Warg herding the patrons into a tight knot in the middle of the floor made him gasp. Then he felt himself being pushed toward the center by the kitchen staff as two large black Wargs with glints of grey in their sleek coats silently padded into the Common Room from the kitchen area, one from each entrance near the ends of the bar.

Soon there were three pair of yellow eyes following the slightest movements of the gathered patrons. The younger male and female Warg, who had come through the kitchen, now stood alert atop the broad surface of the bar. Their keen, intelligent gazes marked how the two-leggeds breathed raggedly, and how the stench of fear lay heavy on them. The young male, Dúgoroth, curled back his lips in a fanged smile, and lunged forward as if to leap at prey. His sister-twin, Dûrêl, snapped at him, growling low, and he pulled back quickly, snarling.

She nodded at their father, Carchmoroth, as he stood now on a wide oak table near the entryway, pacing its length, his gaze ever on the gathered patrons. He paused, looking directly at Dwarin, as if he recognized him as one in charge. And then he spoke in a low, husky voice, and all understood him.

‘This is the place where creatures may speak their tales in poetry or deathless prose - so have I heard in my long travels north and south. Will you hear the ancient tale of our dread ancestor?’

He nodded at the Barrow Wight, sitting calmly at his table, his pen now stilled. The fell creature of the Downs raised his tankard to the beast and looked about, wondering how those gathered up might now respond . . .

[ December 05, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]