The Vineyard Tavern

[Bêthberry]

Anyone whose posts can meet the minimum standard for gaming in The Shire may post in The Vineyard Tavern. Please make sure you are familiar with The Redbook of Westmarch (in The Shire) and The Golden Hall (here in Rohan); these treads provide valuable information about gaming at the Barrow Downs.

No SAVES are allowed in the Inn.

The Vineyard Tavern is run as an interactive, improvisational game. You can plan events via PM or email but the main point is to take your cue from the posts which precede yours. Please read them carefully so your posts reflect current events, the time, the weather, and who other characters are and what they are doing.

Only the Innkeeper or the Moderator can move the Timeframe forward.

Gaming at the Vineyard is open but playing in Rohan games is restricted to gamers who have shown they can can game responsibly and reliably, demonstrating the basic techniques of interactive role playing and writing in clean, clear, correct English. (No chatspeak is allowed.). Please see the next post for the lists of Rohan Game Players and Game Managers.

[Bêthberry]

Anyone can game at The Vineyard Tavern as long as their posts meet the minimum standard for writing as described in The Shire.

Rohan is the place where gamers build upon the skills learnt in The Shire and prepare to become fully independent gamers in Gondor. (It is still a moderated forum but gamers are expected to be more independent and responsible ) For that reason, we have two levels of gamers in Rohan, based upon the level of successful gaming experience in The Shire. People who have participated responsibly and reliably in Shire games and who have demonstrated at least the potential for creative, imaginative, excellent writing skills are Rohan Game Players.

People who have founded and run a game successfully in The Shire have full status as Game Founder (or Manager) as well as Player. These gamers have proven they can maintain a level of enthusiasm and interest over the duration of a game and can motivate their fellow game participants.

Please note that Rohan games are owned by everyone who participates in them. While the Game Founder (or Manager) has an idea of how the game is plotted and structured, all gamers participate in creating the story by writing it.

For the full list of Game Founders and Game Players, please read the thread
The Golden Hall

[Bêthberry]

Finian, still surrounded by lingering morning mists, drew his bow to his ear and aimed the arrow at a shaggy bale of straw. A finger of dawn dropped upon it and it shimmered, transforming into a great golden dragon with translucent wings of aurora beauty. Yellow flames, flecked with orange and streaked with crimson, burst from its fang-ridden mouth, burning the innocent town below, destroying the wooden huts. Pillars of fire erupted from the dried thatch. Children screamed. Women and men dived into the safety of the water. But a lone man -- nay, it was a young boy not yet into full manhood -- stood his ground: he alone dared face the golden wyrm. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled the bow string taut, drawing the arrow to his ear. The dragon soared through the sky as a burning star alight with dawn"s fire, radiant with brilliant liht save for a gaping hole below the heart. The arrow leaped from the bow with a shrill cry and plunged itself into the black hole. With an agonized roar, the dragon toppled from the sky to drop into the lake below. Bubbles rose to the lake"s smooth surface, the agitated water hissed and steamed, and the --

"I would think the innkeeper of the Vineyard Tavern would be behind the bar instead of staring at a bale of straw as if it meant to kill you," said Rochadan, a smile drifting about his face.

Finian jerked his head away and blinked at the stable master. Rochadan and his father had been good friends, and since his father had died in Smaug's attack, the stable master had helped him establish a new Vineyard Tavern. The boy stared at the stable master, looking into his rugged face, his deep brown eyes. Then he grinned, and said, "Then the guests are indeed foolish to stir this early about."

Rochadan flashed a grin and then said, "Ædhral was looking for your sister, Ærosylle. She is not in the Tavern."

Blast it. The girl was always disappearing. "I will find her soon," he said, rolling his eyes. Drat. Patrons came first. They always came first in the business, his father had told him. Why did she always have to disappear? Finian was sure it was because she knew he could not drop everything and rush to find her. She liked to be alone, doing her strange antics, thinking her strange thoughts.

Still pondering whether he should find her or not, Finian spared a glance at the newly built and refurnished Vineyard Tavern. He ran his fingers through his hair and nodded with a broad smile at the sturdy building. His father had been Innkeeper before him in old Esgaroth but he perished in a spout of Smaug's flame when wyrm had descended onto Lake-Town, leaving him as the new innkeeper and the sole provider for his younger sister, Ærosylle. Finian shook his head: that had been a fleeting year ago. It had been a busy time, with many maimed and injured. Bêthberry the healer had helped and then, as an old family friend, stayed on to attend to his sister, but the illness was a strange one which seemed beyond healing at times. Yet Bethberry stayed on, becoming a kindly ear for any at the Inn and offering advice and herbal remedies to those who needed it, and becoming a part of the new Vineyard Tavern.

The Vineyard Tavern was not large, but neither was it small. The wood was light pine, with a thatch roof. The Tavern's sign, with a cluster of grapes painted on the top left corner and elves rafting upon a river in the bottom right hand corner, dangled from a projecting beam of wood. His father, he hoped, would be proud of him. Forgoing for a small time the search for his sister, Finain, with another small sigh, marched into the inn, and looked about him. Not many people were gathered in the Common Room but that was to be expected. The people were busy planting for the season. Mainly the men were traders dropping by for a pint of ale or a goblet of wine before continuing their trip down the river. Then they would return for a few days, rafts laden with wealth, seeds, produce and news.

A strong smell of spice and roasted meat wafted through the common room and Finian, with a smile, dashed to the kitchen and poked his head through the door. Ædrhal was busy stirring a great iron pot. Ædrhal towered; her hair a loose braid down her back. She heard his clatter and, turning her head, said, "We are having a bit of eggs and bacon, Finian."

"We have not had bacon for a very long time," said Finian with a grin.

She merely smiled at him.

"We do not have as many hungry guests this morning as we normally do," said Finian -- not like when my father was the innkeeper -- "but we have enough." He nodded his head, a half smile about his lips.

Leaving the kitchen, he stationed himself behind the bar, talking to the occasional customer who ordered a frothing mug of ale. The thought of his sister nagged at his mind. He should go out and look for her?but the patrons of the Inn needed to be satisfied first.

[Ealasaide]

At the hitching post outside the stables, Rochadan bent down over the foreleg of a horse that had just come into his care by way of a newly arrived guest at the Vineyard Tavern. He could tell at a glance that the horse favored the leg and was not surprised to discover some swelling above the fetlock. It was probably just a slight sprain, he decided, but he would have a word with the horse's owner as soon as possible. Both forelegs would benefit from being wrapped at least for a few days. He straightened and patted the animal's neck. Looking across the inn yard, he could see the new innkeeper, Finian, standing with a bow in his hand and a look of cold determination in his eyes as he prepared to put to death a nearby hay bale. Rochadan smiled and walked in the young man's direction.

"I would think the innkeeper of the Vineyard Tavern would be behind the bar instead of staring at a bale of hay as if it meant to kill you," he said pleasantly.

Jolted out of his daydream, Finian turned quickly and blinked at the stablemaster. Then he grinned. "Then the guests are indeed foolish to stir this early about."

Rochadan laughed. It was indeed early, but the Vineyard's guests had a tendency not only to be up and about at all hours, but to expect food, drink, and service as well. It would do the young innkeeper well to bear that in mind, thought Rochadan, but he did not press the subject. Finian had proven himself quite dedicated over the past year, so a little grumbling from the young fellow was not only acceptable, but understandable. On the other hand, there was something Rochadan had been meaning to tell Finian. He paused to think what it was. He had been so absorbed in finding the cause of the lameness in the guest's horse that he had nearly forgotten the conversation he had had with Ædhral, one of the serving girls, just a short while earlier. She had been looking for Ærosylle, Finian's sister, and been unable to find her. The girl had a way of turning up missing from time to time. Usually she could be found again fairly quickly, but, with her odd ways, her wandering off was always troubling.

"Ædhral was looking for your sister, Ærosylle," he told Finian. "She is not in the Tavern."

"I will find her soon," answered Finian and, taking his bow, walked off in the direction of the door to the common room. Rochadan watched him go thinking how much the boy had matured in the year since his father, Aeron, had died. Before the coming of the dragon a year ago, Rochadan would never have believed a happy-go-lucky scamp like Finian capable of running the Vineyard, much less rebuilding it from the ground up. Having seen the innkeeper killed and the inn go up in flames, Rochadan had been certain that he would be out of a job and be forced to take his daughter and move on. To his surprise, when he had returned with the rest of the men from fighting at Bard's side in the Battle of the Five Armies, he found Finian hard at work with plans to rebuild the place. He took heart from Finian's faith and threw himself into the work of rebuilding the inn with a sort of energy that he didn't think he could muster anymore. Between the two of them, they had done an admirable job of it, too. Rochadan was as proud of - and as attached to - the inn as if it were his own.

After all, the Vineyard Tavern had been his home for three years now, ever since the death of his wife, Tristana, in childbirth. Prior to her passing, Rochadan had been a long distance messenger, carrying mail and dispatches from Esgaroth to wherever they needed to go throughout Middle Earth. When she had died, leaving him a widower at twenty-six with despair in his heart and a tiny infant on his hands, he had given up his life as a messenger and taken the job as stablemaster at the inn. Looking back, he saw Aeron's offer of the job at such a crucial moment in his life as the one thing that had saved him. Without it, he hated to think what might have become of him or his daughter. After Aeron's death, Rochadan had mourned him as if the innkeeper had been Rochadan's own father, rather than his employer. Now, as the oldest member of the staff aside from the cook, he felt a sense of responsibility toward the young people who now ran the Vineyard. He would do whatever he could to help them make a success of the place. He owed it to Aeron.

Returning to the hitching post where he had left the injured horse, he glanced toward the patch of grass just outside the stable door where his three year old daughter sat making mud pies out of a bucket. He had set her down there nearly an hour earlier and was pleased to see that she was still there, singing softly to herself as she carefully garnished each mud pat with grass and bits of loose straw. Keeping one eye on her as he worked, he groomed the injured horse and led him inside to a clean box stall. Coming back out of the stable, Rochadan leaned on the fence just over the little girl, watching her dark head as it bent over her work.

"Well, precious Sallie," he said at last. "It's nigh on breakfast time."

The little girl sighed without looking up. "It's not pre-shus Sallie," she corrected him patiently. "It's Princess Sallie. Princess Sallie Spitfire...Trouble."

Rochadan suppressed a chuckle. "Apologies, my lady." He knelt down in the grass beside her. "But I don't think folks around here will hold with much fire spitting just now, especially not in light of our recent past. What other trouble have you got?"

She looked up at her daddy and smiled radiantly. "I made mud pies. For the kitties. They're very hungry."

Rochadan smiled in return, but there was a sadness in his eyes. Since Tristana's death, Salaidhwyn, or Sallie as he had called her almost since birth, had been the light of his life. Nonetheless, it pained him sometimes to look at her as the little girl's smile carried within it the image of her mother. And then there was that dragging leg. A breech birth, her left leg had been broken by the midwife during the delivery that Tristana had not survived, and the break had not healed correctly. As a result, Sallie had been left with a severe limp. The healers all said that it would grow less noticeable as the child grew older, but Rochadan worried for her anyway. His smiled fading, he reached out and touched his daughter's cheek. In response, she stood and placed one small, muddy hand on either side of his face. Leaning forward, she gave him a kiss on the mouth.

"Don't be sad, Papa," she said softly, her lower lip beginning to tremble. "Don't be sad."

Remembering himself, Rochadan let his smile broaden again. He winked at his daughter and let one hand stray very close to the largest mud pie. "Did you save one for me? I'm very hungry, too."

The little girl shrieked and caught her father's hand. "No, Papa! Stop!" she giggled as the two of them struggled playfully over the mud pies. Finally, he swept her up into his arms and, settling her on one hip, walked toward the door to the inn's kitchen. While he needed to get some breakfast for Sallie, he also wondered if anyone had managed to find Ærosylle yet. If not, he would have a look around for her himself. He opened the door to the kitchen, completely forgetting about the muddy handprints that graced both of his cheeks.

[Nurumaiel]

Cynan Harwell walked slowly and carefully along the road, with his arm about the shoulders of a little boy, perhaps nine years old, who was trying both bravely and vainly to fight away tears. Cynan himself seemed to be like most boys of his age, one-and-ten years. He seemed to conceal an infinite store of energy and mischief, for while he walked with slow deliberate steps a little glint in his grey eyes betrayed his real personality. His hair was a sandy brown and he had a few light freckles on his slightly tanned face. He was just beginning to grow taller, though he did not look any older than his age. Thus far, the normal little boy.

His companion was much different to look at, and it cannot be doubted that he received a few stares as he walked unsteadily down the road. The right side of his face was badly burned, and his right arm fell uselessly at his side. His right leg dragged along behind him and every step seemed to cause him considerable pain. There could be no shadow of a doubt as to where he had received these burns. The left side of his face, however, showed something else. There were some burns but they were faint, not nearly as prominent as those on his right side, and if one took the time to stop staring and then averting their eyes and staring again, but looked at him with a clear steady gaze they might see that his features were fair, and kind, and also contained some nobility, but not in the sense that he was of a high rank. But this, sadly, was only for the keen observer to see, and the casual would be horrified at the burns on his face, and the way he limped, and how his right eye was squinted and narrow, causing it to be of an uneven size with the left eye.

The keen observer might also notice with what compassion and tenderness Cynan guided the little burnt fellow, moving especially slow so the burnt would not be injured, and supporting him strongly with his arm yet not causing him any pain by too firm a grip. For Cynan was a compassionate boy at heart, despite his love for causing mischief, and when he had seen the little fellow lying curled up on the street crying he had felt a surge of pity and had taken it upon himself to care for him. Yes, the keen observer would also see that Cynan had known the boy for only ten minutes.

A year ago, when the dragon Smaug had descended upon his home and devastated it, Cynan found himself left without a father, and his older sister had died, though his younger two brothers and three sisters had survived. His mother, too, had lived, but she had been sick ever since, weeping in grief, and Cynan had heard whisperings from the neighbors the she was dying of a broken heart. He felt that both were ridiculous... his mother was not, of course, dying, and nobody ever died of a broken heart. And so, ridiculous.

Cynan felt comforted when he saw the sign with the words The Vineyard Inn written upon hanging above the door. In the days before Smaug had come Cynan's father had often gone to that same Inn to meet with others and take a mug of ale after a long, weary day. Cynan himself did not know any about the Inn and had never seen the Inn before, but when he saw the name old recollections stirred in him and he remembered how his father had spoken of it. Here he would surely find a chair to set this poor little boy down in, and perhaps a bit of rag to dry his eyes. And when Cynan thought of rags he looked sorrowfully at the ragged clothes the little boy wore.

Pushing open the door, he helped the boy up the steps, and the little fellow whimpered softly under his breath. Cynan felt pity overcome him again, and then he pulled a chair out from a table and sat the boy down in it. The latter seemed relieved at this opportunity of rest and ran a dirty sleeve across his eyes, brushing the tears away. Looking up at Cynan, he said solemnly, in a voice full of gratitude, "Thank you sir. Thank you so very much."

"It is nothing at all," Cynan said lightly, sitting down himself. "Nothing at all." He did not speak for a moment but looked with friendliness into the younger boy's eyes, and then he leaned forward slightly in a comradely way. "I hope you will not resent my asking the question," he said, "but I should very much like to know how you came to be lying on the road in tears."

The boy looked confused for a moment, and then his burnt face cleared a little and he spoke, though very slowly. "Well, sir, my master grew upset with me."

"Upset?"

"Yes, sir. I had been clumsy and spilled things."

Cynan felt a sensation of horror creep over him and though he felt he knew the answer very well, he asked, "What happened then?"

"Well, sir, he... he beat me." A shudder went through the boy's body, and the tears filled in his eyes again. "And then he threw me out in the street."

"Well!" cried Cynan, indignation burning his voice. "Well! say I again! If the mean fellow threw you out of his place it seems to be a grand thing entirely. More's the pity to him, but you should be glad rid of him."

"Oh." The boy shook his head with a sad little smile. "It isn't the first time it has happened. He will want me back as he has oft before."

Cynan was startled at this, but he did not lose his power of speech. "Whatever induced you to go to work for such a horrible man?" he questioned, for he was quite certain that the man was horrible. No good man could ever beat a poor, burnt little boy and then throw him out. If the boy was clumsy, was it not natural, as he had only one hand to use and he could not walk well?

"I could go nowhere else," the boy said. "When the dragon came a year ago my mother and father were killed and also my brother. I, as you see, was rendered useless by these burns. No one would take me to work because I could not do much."

"And so," Cynan said, "the only one who would take you was a wicked man who could not find anyone prior because of his wickedness."

"Indeed, sir."

"And so you must go back later today?"

"Yes, sir."

Cynan fell silent and began to ponder this. He found it quite ridiculous that this boy should work for such a man, and he found it outrageous. Yet he himself could do nothing. He had been searching for work himself for the past few weeks. His father had owned a considerable wealth when he was killed, and the family had managed on this money for a year, but Cynan was beginning to see that it would not last forever, and he took it upon himself as the eldest to go find work, as his mother was sick in bed.

"Tell me," he said, "why do you work for this man, aside from that he was the only place of work. You have no family to provide for (more's the pity, though), and surely you could find someone who would be willing to take care of you. There are some very kindhearted people hereabouts."

"I have found no one," said the boy, "and I also wish to earn as much money as I can. I hardly spend any of it, but beg for my meals in the streets. I want to have a little bit of fortune set aside in the case that I ever find my little sister. She is only six years old, if she is alive, and she became lost when the dragon struck. I have not found her since. I... I want to have some money if I ever find her, so she might have a home and some food."

"You," said Cynan with genuine admiration, "are a very good sort of boy. I am most pleased to meet you. Please, won't you tell me your name?"

"I am called Andhun," said the boy.

Cynan took the boy's good hand in his own and held it in a gentle, friendly clasp. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance," he said, "and I hope we shall be good friends."

A little smile flickered on the boy's face and he said, "I should very much like it, sir."

"Well then, we shall." And the two settled back in their chairs in comradely silence.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

She walked with no one beside her, no one behind her, and just one companion before her down the roads and paths of Lake-Town. The young woman watched the people of the town rebuilding this and that as she passed by them, but her eyes and face remained emotionless even in the sight of destruction. She was aware of the disaster that had befallen the area a year before, but the lady had seen and heard of stranger occurances in her years of traveling. Her years did not number many, when compared to others, but years feel long when days mean nothing and only the nights matter.

Rolled pieces of parchment protruded from the flap of the pack that she had slung across her back, but she held no other belongings in her hands. Her lone companion ran up ahead, panting cheerfully before the woman. His shaggy, ebony hair gleamed in the bright sunlight and his chocolate brown eyes showed naught but happiness as he led his mistress on. The young lady looked down at her dog, her only companion, and smiled at his lively nature. The woman pushed her own raven hair back behind her ears, the loose curls twisting easily behind and out of her face, curling down to her shoulder blades. The linen skirt she wore tattered at the hem, falling near to the middle of her calves and revealing her black traveling boots. She had rolled up her tunic sleeves earlier that morning, letting her forearms take in the warmth. Her dark skin resembled the color of wet sand, and she basked in the sunlight.

“That is well, Grimm,” She murmured to her dog when he came to walk briskly at her side. She scratched behind his pointed ears as she looked back up into the sky. Her eyes squinted in the bright light. “Yes, Grimm, it will be a good night for me tonight. There is not a cloud in the sky, and I will be able to watch. First, we must find a place to stay.”

The dark dog barked in reply, running a few feet ahead of the woman. She looked at the roofs of all the houses, eyeing them carefully and taking in all the details. Many were thatched, which brought a smile to her face. Others had not been replaced and were mere holes revealing the insides of the house to the watching sky above. When she saw the sign for the Vineyard Tavern, her eyes quickly darted up to the thatched roof. The slope seemed generous enough and did not rise too terribly high, though it sloped upwards to a point. Nodding, the girl pushed the door open and walked into the tavern. Her animal companion, Grimm, followed behind her, close enough for his wet nose to touch along the hem of her skirt.

Sitting down in the first empty seat she found, the girl sighed and pulled her pack off her back. She bent down to where Grimm sat obediently, patting his head reverently. “I hope they allow dogs here,” his owner, the young lady called Kellan, muttered gently to her animal friend.

[Imladris]

Nerindel's post :

A young woman carefully cracked several large eggs into an iron cooking pot that sat over the log-burning stove in the kitchen of The Vineyard Tavern. The young woman was Ædhral, the Taverns kitchen assistant. However, at present the inn was short a cook and Ædhral was forced to assume the position until an adequate replacement could be found, but she never complained in fact she rather quite enjoyed preparing the taverns meals and as yet, there had been no complaints. Her face was red from the heat of the stove but she paid it no heed and carried on diligently, adding milk to the eggs and stirring the pots contents into a scrambled consistency. The smell of sizzling bacon wafted up from the oven, fresh bread and rolls cooled by the open window and now the eggs where almost done, she allow herself a satisfied grin as she removed the eggs from the heat and took the bacon from the oven. Setting the bacon aside, she wiped her brow with the back of her hand, tucked a loose strand of escaped dark hair behind her ear and returned to give the eggs one final stir.

A sudden clatter from behind her made her start and she turned her head to see a greasy mop of dark hair poke through the door that connected the kitchen to the common room of the Tavern. It was only Finian the young proprietor of The Vineyard Tavern, “We are having a bit of eggs and bacon this morning, Finian,” she smiled.

“We have not had bacon for a very long time” Finian grinned. She smiled back with a slight nod of her head, it had been a long time but the butcher’s young enigmatic son had offered her some at a reasonable price and she knew it would go down well.

“We do not have as many hungry guests this morning as we normally do,” Finian said, and although he did not say it, she knew that he was thinking of when his father was alive and the tavern was near bursting at the seams with guests. “But we have enough.” He nodded a half smile about his lips.

Ædhral watched him retreat into the common room, it had been a year since Aeron had been lost in a spout of Dragons fire and the original tavern crushed under the belly of the beast. But even in his grieve Finian had been determined to rebuild the Tavern, though he had not been sure how. But they all helped out where they could. Rochadan like the other able-bodied men of Esgaroth had gone with Bard and the elves to the lonely mountain and left little Sallie in her care, but on his return, he helped Finian to rebuild the Tavern. It had taken them months but she knew that if Aeron were able to see what they had accomplished he would be proud. She just wished that Finian could see it and believe a little in himself.

She had to admit that it had been strange at first thinking of Finain as the new innkeeper, he was two years younger than her and like a brother, all the staff where like family to her, even the inn’s server Kannah who’s dry humour was almost always last on her. Finian’s father Aeron had taken her in almost three years ago, when her grandfather a regular of the tavern had passed away leaving her an orphan at the age of sixteen. She was always grateful to Aeron, for the opportunity he had given her and looking up to him as a father. His passing hit her hard, but she had to be strong for the others. Giving Finian the support he looked for, comforting and consoling Ærosylle and looking after Sallie for Rochadan, Even Kannah had taken strength from her, though she knew her friends pride would never allow her to admit it. But she did not grudge any of them, they where her family and if they needed her to be strong then she would be strong, she had grown a lot in the past year they all had, but with it their bonds of friendship had also grown stronger.

“Daydreaming again, now there‘s a surprise!” The Sarcastic remark caught her of guard and she blinked as she snapped out of her thoughts. Kannah walk across the kitchen floor towards her an empty tray in her hands waiting impatiently for it to be filled. Ædhral merely smiled as she spooned the scrambled eggs on to plates and sided them with bacon, and continued to listen as Kannah went on to describe how one young man had had the audacity to ask her if she was having a nice day. She bit her bottom lip to suppress a laugh as she put the bread and rolls into baskets and heaped the orders carefully upon Kannah’s tray and as soon as she had, Kannah turned and pushed her way back into the common room.

She let a quiet laugh escape her lips as she turned back to the stove, Kannah was always amusing company, even if she was a little sarcastic and dry, but Ædhral never took any of the woman’s biting retorts to heart. It was just the way Kannah was and she had learned to accept that that was just the way it was.

The rear door to kitchen opened and in walked the Taverns Stable Master, Rochadan with little Sallie firmly attached to his hip. “Good Morning, Ada!” The little girl smiled brightly.

“And good morning to you my lady,” she grinned, wiping her hands on her apron and dipping a playful curtsy, which made the little girl giggle. “Oh my, what have you two been up too?” she laughed seeing the mud that caked Sallie’s hands and the stable master’s face.

“Making mud pies for the kitties.” Sallie laughed as she too saw the mud caked to her fathers face.

“What!” Rochadan exclaimed defensively now that the two of them were laughing at him.

“It seems the princess has bestowed a gift upon you noble knight, in fact two gifts good sir!” she laughed. Taking a cloth from the table and soaking it in the warmed water in the kitchens stone sink and wringing it out she offered it to Rochadan who had now remembered the muddy handprints on his cheeks and was playing along. She listened to father and daughter as they washed for breakfast and she set the table for the Taverns staff, several times Kannah returned to fill her tray, but then was gone again as quickly. They took meals in shifts; so that there was always someone waiting on the Taverns guests, once she had eaten, she would relieve Kannah and Finian so that they could eat.

“Did you find Ærosylle?” Rochadan asked as he and Sallie returned to sit at the table.

“No, I had hoped she would return for breakfast, but ….” her dark eyes wandered to the door as if she half expecting the troubled young girl to walk through it as if nothing was wrong.

“I will go look for her!” Rochadan said rising from his seat.

“Thank you Rochadan, I am worried about her, you know how she can get.” The Stable master nodded his understanding.

“I won’t be long, save me some bacon!” he winked to Sallie and lifted a warm roll as went out to look for Ærosylle.

Ædhral sat down to have some breakfast and to keep Sallie Company until her father returned, hopefully with Ærosylle in tow.