The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Kransha]

Taking several auspicious glances in rapid succession, over his statuary shoulders, Fescue Bracegirdle eventually got around to speaking again, after double-taking a number of times at the strange man who this aristocratic fellow had nominated as the innkeeper. “Well, thank you very much, Master Snaveling Tar-Corondil.” He said, bowing with a highly embellished flourish, “The Thain thanks you for your services.” The man nodded pleasantly and turned away, a little too promptly for Fescue’s liking, but the hobbit was far too enthralled by his own deeds to realize that something might be amiss. He turned sharply on his unclothed heel, and looked down at the peculiar “innkeeper” of the Green Dragon, one primly formed eyebrow raised just above the other. Spurge nudged Fescue with his grimy elbow, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

“He doesn’t look like an innkeeper, Fes. Looks like more of a toss-pot to me.” remarked Gromwell astutely. “Fescue, Gromwell,” Fescue Bracegirdle swiftly corrected, in a timely manner, “and I do think he has that air that a mannish business-owner should.” He turned his head and looked down, with mild indignation, at the pompous fellow, taking due note of his appearance, slight dishevelment, bombastic gait and girth, and his looks on the whole. He then nodded curtly and turned back, looking back at Gromwell as if his point had been magically proven simply by looking at the man. Spurge, though, did not seem convinced, though Gromwell began vigorously nodding to satiate Fescue.

“But the Thain’s message stated that the innkeeper was a girl.” Spurge said, jabbing a fat finger at Fescue, his lip curled in disdain. He paused, looking contemplative for a moment(or, about as contemplative as half-witted Spurge Proudfoot could), his finger pausing in mid-motion, and then suddenly flew to his side, to the leathery belt that hung over his shoulder as a military sash might. In the folds of the broad baldric, several scrolls were held by further cords and draperies, and the brawny hobbit produced from the multitude of messages a single scroll of fine-smelling, rosy parchment, and pulled out a small slip of paper that was enclosed in the proclamation’s binding ribbon. He energetically flicked open the note with his spatulate thumb, and held it out to Fescue, filling the other Halfling’s face with the terse message, tapping his longest digit against the salutation at the top. “See?” he said, almost voraciously, as he was not used to being right and always savored the opportunity to be so, “It says ‘Miss Amanduial,’ not Mister.”

Wrinkling his nose and pulling back from the slip of paper and shoving it aside dismissively. “Probably a clerical error.” He said to both of his bewildered cohorts, calm and collected as usual as he pilfered the message from Spurge’s upraised hand and tucked it neatly beneath the length of ribbon that held the scroll. “Even the Thain makes mistakes…sometimes.” He hastily corrected himself, and Gromwell heartily grinned, though spurge simply snorted. “Anyway,” Fescue Bracegirdle continued, almost drawling fine, classical rhetoric in that operatic voice of his, preaching to the sky, “why would any man lie of such things? No one has reason to hinder our noble course. It is not as if he is the criminal.” Gromwell let loose a good-natured, but obviously forced chuckle at this.

Spurge, on the other hand, looked as if his slow mind had just been rejuvenated by thought. “Maybe ‘e is!” He cried, practically leaping from his grounded position. The hobbit seemed poised, strangely, and impelled to speak voraciously; stabbing a finger like a sword at the man, who had his back turned, and he spoke in a fierce, rasping whisper. But, Fescue waved him aside again, incredulous in the extreme. “Spurge,” he said, like a frustrated educator, “the criminal is a hobbit.” His eyes turned to Snaveling, who seemed to be nervously milling about, and said, with some confidence: “That is not a hobbit.” But, Spurge had not gotten over his sudden burst of luster, and spouted out the only possible explanation he could think of, one that seemed perfectly plausible - to him.

“Maybe he’s wearin’ stilts?”

Fescue did not even hesitate to terminate that theory. “What a ridiculous concept.” He admonished his accomplice, “Surely, this is the innkeeper. Let us find out.” His prognosis was curt, and not to be argued, siding physically with his supervisor, Gromwell gave a stern nod, which followed Fescue’s own, and Spurge shrunk back in defeat, his venture deemed preposterous by Fescue’s sterling logic. Grumbling in an underhanded manner, Spurge followed suit as Fescue turned and leaned over the gaudy fellow and gripping his hand, attempted to extricate him from the floor. The poor hobbit, witty as he was, had nowhere near enough strength in his small arms to arouse the man, so surly Spurge had to grab the man’s other arm. They tugged uselessly for a few moments before the man got up of his own accord, rocking slightly from side to side like one intoxicated, which elicited indignant looks from Spurge and Gromwell. Fescue, though, was polite and socially refined, as usual, presenting himself as a rare find to the man, who looked at him with a most peculiar look plastered on his fair face, which caused Spurge to cough uncomfortably, a bit disconcerted.

“Excuse me,” he began eloquently, “most noble innkeeper of the Green Dragon. Are you well?” This was said with a minimal air of concern, though not doleful concern, or credible concern, but obligatory concern. The hobbit did not let the simple phrase be answered before he plowed on with his prudish yammering. “Your associate here,” he said, indicating Snaveling (who was actually not where he had been, thus rendering Fescue’s auxiliary gesture meaningless), “tells me you’ve had excess liquor, but I am sure that such a respectable fellow is always sober, to some degree; else you would not be able to manage such a reputed, eminent, renowned, and wholly fine establishment.”

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"What else is left for me in this land anymore?" said Cree sadly. Fáinu looked at Cree and felt her sadness emulate from her. He knew that he had been one of the causes of her sadness. There was not much he could now do, save perhaps to offer aid, and that he expected her to decline.

"What would you ask of me?" said Fáinu, "Many sorrows fill your heart, and I know that I contributed to them. Surly I can aid you in healing some of your hurts? Ask of me, and if it is in my power, I shall see it done."

Cree did not move, it was as if she had not been listening and was off in her own little world. Fáinu lent closer to her and with a look of concern he said;

"Cree, Will you hearken to me?" She looked up at him and yet said naught, she seemed now to have been drained of all contentment. Avalon had been a friend and it was hard for her to give up a dear comrade such as her. Fáinu sat back and thought to himself. Cree was filled with sorrow and doubt, distrust and rage. All he could do was be silent.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"So three meals then, one full, two without gravy and one with no veg or gravy and with the steak very rare?"

Aman eyed her four 'customers' warily over her notebook. All four seemed rather shorter than even the average hobbit customer, and one, for whom a rare steak with no vegetables, had been ordered, was so wrapped up in heavy winter clothes, despite the fair weather, that she could barely see it's figure. Not to mention the fact that one of the other customers had an arm across the back of the former's neck: not that this was strange in itself - it was something about the white knuckle grip that was being exerted on the tightly tied scarf around it's neck.

"Actu'lly, can I skip the vegibles as well please, miss?" piped up one of them in a somewhat muffled but still suspiciously squeaky voice.

"Brando! You will ea- I mean..." the high pitched, juvenile female voice deepened itself with difficulty. "I mean, you will eat your veggibles as your mother- erm, as you wife told you to!"

"But I- ow!" There was a thud beneath the table and one of the heavily wrapped figures doubled over, looking up to fiercely reprimand the previous speaker. "Oahh...oh, Tilly Longbottom, I'm gonna tell your mam you did that, that was my ankle..."

Aman cleared her throat subtly, trying not to laugh at the tableau. She knew exactly what was coming next, and could have timed the awkward pause that came before the next, hopelessly predictable line.

"Erm...and can we also order a few beers? Miss Innkeeper? Please?"

Aman regarded the hopeful faces beneath their fake beards and jauntily stuck on moustaches and gave a sigh of mock-sorrow. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," she replied regretfully. "But we just ran out." She eyed the quartet of disguised hobbit youths challengingly to see whether they would press on the matter but instead they sort of deflated and there was a murmur of unsatisfied discussion between them until Aman threw in her ace. "Of course," she said carefully. "For such fine and upstanding gentlemen of the Inn, a most sophisticated and worthy beverage has always been...strawberry fizz?"

The four heads nearly collided as another flurry of muttered discussion ensued before one of the youths, the appointed spokeshobbit, nodded up at Aman. "Right y'are then: three strawberry fizzes it is then."

"Please!" Another hissed.

"Oh, right, yes, three strawberry fizzes please," the spokeshobbit ammended guiltily. "And, eh...and one bowl of water," he added shiftily.

Aman winked, finishing off the order on her pad. "Good choice, young sirs," she said with a flourish and a barely covered pat on the head of the heavily wrapped customer, greeted with a panted thanks which was hastily coughed over by the other three. She made her way across the room, whistling lightly under her breath, until a spoken line arrested her in her tracks.

"...as the owner of this fine establishment..."

Aman froze in mid-stride and spun around slowly to the source of the strange line to see a most peculiar trio of hobbits a few feet away, the most flamboyantly dressed of these half-crouched over a prone figure on the floor and talking to him with some difficulty with as much grace as possible. The Innkeeper squinted at the writing on the envelope in the speaker's hand to read - yes, there it was! - her own name. With a puzzled half-smile half-frown, Aman approached them quickly, slipping her notepad back into her pocket.

"Sorry, gentlemen, there seems to be some-"

A hand on her wrist stopped Aman and she turned, already knowing whose hand it was, to identify Snaveling. He half-rose as she turned, shaking his head shiftily. "Nay, Aman, let it be for-"

Aman didn't catch on and forced her fluttering heart to calm down - he was being absurd. "Don't be ridiculous, Snaveling," she smiled, pulling her hand away as she addressed the hobbits again. "Pardon men, gents, I believe there has been some mistake: I am the Amanaduial, Innkeeper of the Green Dragon. May I ask who it is that seeks me in such a way?"

[Kransha]

Toby’s brooding was at last interrupted by a small commotion in the Common Room. He was far too circumspect and concerned to venture near it. He saw, after an instant of looking, that Snaveling was involved, as was Aman, and both were looking down at a trio of figures whose faces were mostly obscured by other activity. Tobias Hornblower tried unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the figures, but he was suddenly distracted by Snaveling, who was shooting him a knowing glance. He looked, reservedly, at his old friend, and was alarmed to see a look of great urgency. In an instant, the whole situation became clear, too clear for poor Toby. The authorities had come, as he knew they would. Thankfully, Snaveling was still with him, and had enough presence of mine to give a very noticeable signal. Panicking, Toby jumped to his feet and began a mad dash, as discreetly as he could, for the door, and an adequate hiding place.

He flitted out, with sprightly, but not jovial quickness in his feet. He dashed through the crowd, sticking to the shady walls and avoiding the vague pools of morning light that gathered together on the floor. He felt underhanded, illicit, even criminal, practicing such conspiratorial activity, but remaining unknown was of grave importance. The hobbit dearly wished that he had gotten the chance to explain his plight to at least Snaveling. But, he could not do so now, and was condemned to hope that he and Aman would understand. He would explain it to them as soon as he could, but he could no longer go to them. They would have to seek him out, and, maybe, they would remain his friends, and not expose him. He had quite a bit of explaining to do, a thought which tore at the front of his mind, but that was unimportant now. The hobbit had to find a hiding place that could house him, at least temporarily.

Toby thought of fleeing, but the Thain’s men probably had horses or ponies to ride, and he had nowhere to go. He resolved to stay on the inn’s grounds, but he could not go back into the inn itself, for his pursuers were there. Then, he saw his salvation: the stable. Without thinking, or considering what he might do, he high-tailed it to the stable and barged in, causing a number of nervous noises from the horses, many of which disconcerted Toby greatly. He headed back to the stall he’d slept in, but found it filled, by a disagreeable pony who neighed at him loudly, and snapped its horse jaws together at him. Hurriedly he back away from the stall that had been his, and spun, searching frantically for a stall that was empty. There were none. Every stall bore a horse, all of them braying and stamping and kicking. Only one stall held an animal that was not reacting aversely – the stall that held Snaveling’s (now Aman’s) mighty horse.

Tobias Hornblower had never liked horses. He remembered, distinctly, his last encounter with the creatures. It had been at the very place he stood now, in the stable of the Green Dragon. It was when the fire, which had begun, and later solved, all of his problems. He and his cousin, Fredigar, had been assigned the task of extricating the Dragon’s clients’ mounts from the burning stable. Toby had nearly gotten his head kicked off that day, more than once. If there was one thing he knew, it was that he hated horses. But, he could do nothing else, so he carefully opened the stable door, tiptoed in, with the horse staring at him, and shut the door quietly behind him. He began to move towards the back of the stall so he could conceal himself there, but the steed was blocking the way. The hobbit knew he could not get past the strong animal, so, he did the only thing he could think of doing…He began to talk to it.

“Alright, lad,” he said, “I don’t like you, and I’m willing to bet you don’t like me, but we’ve got to get through this together, got it? You let me stay here, and I won’t put every last drop of money I have to my name into making a fine lot of glue and horse meat out of you, alright?” Of course, this was a genuine absurdity, since Toby did not, presently, have any money, and he knew that if he did, he wouldn’t spend it on a grudge against a horse, but he was attempting to be as intimidating as a hobbit could be, and the only way to be intimidating, for him, was to act rich. Screwing up his face into a mighty scowl, Toby firmly planted himself and thrust his arm forward, pointing at the spot where he desired the steed to relocate to. “Now,” he said with an air of command and of power, “move.”

The horse did not look amused…or compliant. In fact, if it had had a readable face, one might’ve detected a look of incredulousness. Toby’s nature told him to be mad, to be furious with the animal, but his situation was simply to dire. He began to stutter uncontrollably, considering options. The thought of trying to dive past the horse and hide, occurred to him, but he realized that the horse would simply kick him, or do to him whatever horses did to those that they didn’t like. Stammering like a fool, he opted for sympathy, hoping that the beast would at least be able to understand simple emotion. “Move,” he said again, but less firmly, and he added, like a question after a long pause, “please?” The horse still did not move, and there was no hint of equestrian compassion in its noble eyes and drawn muzzle. Toby’s eyebrows furrowed darkly again and he tried a second time to assume the high ground, and force the horse from his way by verbal force. “C’mon, you filthy beast,” he demanded angrily, “move your great hide, or else!”

The horse whinnied sinisterly, printing his hooves several times in the soft earth, and Toby retreated miserably, backing up against the swinging stall door which he had closed behind him. With a sudden anarchic bray, the horse reared up, stabbing sharp hooves at the air too close to Toby, and the hobbit sunk back, quivering, into the stable corner. At last, the horse came down, and his braying ceased. It looked bemused, and its angry eyes lightened up, the fierce fire in them fading, to Toby’s relief. The elder Halfling managed to stagger to his feet, balancing on a trembling form that barely allowed hum to stand, and took a few half-steps forward, towards the serene steed. It was now completely calm, and Toby saw only one course of action. Very hesitantly, he laid his hand on the horse’s neck and mane, flinching constantly, but the horse did not react. Slowly, he let his rough palm glide along the steed’s sleek coat, caressing it, and then neatly patted its back. He tried, as hard as he could, to be unafraid – and tactful. “You know,” he said, semi-confidently, “there’s really nothing I can give, in exchange for sanctuary, but, if I ever come back into my fortune, I swear on my grandfather’s golden pipe, I’ll buy you so much provender that it’ll take more than two lifetimes to finish it all, and I’ll see that it’s good provender to. So, is it a deal?”

To his surprise, and overwhelming happiness, the steed of Snaveling took a few slight steps to the side, and threw its proud head back, indicating the stall corner. Testing the ground as he walked, as if it were water of unknown temperature, Tobias Hornblower moved into the corner and sat, allowing himself to sink into the piles of hay nestled there. The horse moved back into its place, positioning its head over the stall door, but shot one last look back at Toby. The weary hobbit managed to crack a meek smile. He had no idea why he had even bothered speaking to the horse. He probably could’ve convinced the horse to move simply by petting it, but somehow he thought that the animal knew of his promise…and, if ever the circumstances arose, he would be sure to keep it.

“Thank you.” He whispered, and the horse neighed back.

------------------------

“You are the innkeeper, then?” said Fescue, completely forgetting that he had just been tricked. His mind was caught up in introductions. He considered himself quite the ladies’ man and, even though he wasn’t to keen on romancing any of the Big Folk, his familiar elegance took over. The innkeeper looked back at the strange little fellow with a polite smile on her face and said, “Yes, I am.” simply. Fescue pondered momentarily, scratching his clean, nearly polished chin like a philosopher of old. “I see…” he murmured, and then paused for a winding moment, looking off into the distance as a true thinker might. “Well, dear madam,” he then said, as he bowed pompously, “I am Fescue Bracegirdle. My two colleagues are Masters Spurge Proudfoot and Gromwell Boffin.” He indicated each of his Halfling cohorts, who gave curt little nods that the innkeeper acknowledged. “We are here on the business of the Thain, with dire news, of which you must be informed.”

Here he paused again, mulling over his words, and hushed his tone to a whisper. He realized that the man, Snaveling Tar-Carondil, who had deceived him a moment ago, was still beside Aman, looking a bit worried. This was very suspicious behavior, but Fescue Bracegirdle was, in fact, horrible at analyzing lies, and was also very bad with faces, which were very limiting factors for an officer of the law, but no one truly cared. It was family connections that had gotten him his position, even though he didn’t really know it. Speaking quietly, like a ready predator, he leaned toward Aman and said, “There is, dare I say it, a criminall on the loose, a scoundrel, a rogue, and a villain, and it is feared by the Thain that he may seek this very place as a hideout from the forces of justice.”

He was very surprised that the innkeeper did not gasp, or shriek, or do some other lady-like thing under the circumstance. He had fully expected the young maiden to swoon where she stood, but she did not. She simply said, a little more warily, “A criminal?” Questioning the words as if she thought Fescue might be fabricating them. This made Fescue very self-conscious, and slighted, but he didn’t let it show. Perhaps this wily female was merely concealing her normal instincts so that she could impress him, or some such thing. Though he would never admit it, the fairer sex was a complete mystery to him, so he plowed on.

“Yes, indeed;” he said, “a criminal most vile. I and my associates shall be remaining here, in the Green Dragon, to monitor any activity that may pertain to the rogue.”

Spurge suddenly piped up merrily, adding a tidbit to the conversation. “And,” he said, a devilish tone in his thuggish baritone, “since we’re on Thain’s business, we get free service.” But Fescue scowled at this, not realizing that it was actually a clever plan that Spurge had conjured uncharacteristically, and dismissed the thought as ignorance. “That is not necessary.” he said, “We’ve been endowed with more than enough necessary funds to pay for service.” Spurge grumbled and moved back, greatly annoyed that Fescue had again shot down his idea, which had, in truth, shown promise, but Fescue Bracegirdle was far too righteous to accept any improper activity from his two counterparts. Now, the innkeeper spoke.

“So, if you’ll excuse my asking, who exactly is this ‘rogue’?” She said, patient and unalarmed.

“I’m glad you asked.” said Fescue, “You will have to read this.”

The hobbit turned and yanked the scroll he had observed before out of Spurge’s baldric. He then neatly undid the thin ribbon that held it together, and unfurled the piece of parchment. It smelled of perfume, and of ink, and bore much intricate cursive on it. The whole content of the veritable proclamation was written in detailed, ornamented script, all in sable ink that looked still wet, and a bright red seal lay stamped at the bottom. Gripping each edge, he pushed it forward and held it open, allowing Amanaduial to read, as well as Snaveling, who was looking over her shoulder, worriedly.

Both quietly read the contents of the message:

One Tobias Hornblower, Hobbit man of Longbottom in the Southfarthing, formerly a respectable figure, is now to be regarded as a criminal, possibly dangerous, who is, at present, a fugitive in the Shire. It is advised that if any person sees or comes into contact with Hornblower, said person should swiftly report to a Shirriff or authority figure nearby. Hornblower may have links to several renegade organizations in and outside of the Shire, and is probably being funded by these syndicates, thus he may be in disguise as well. His presence alone may be considered espionage and criminal in itself. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to deal with Tobias Hornblower, as he has numerable dangerous and hostile colleagues. If he is apprehended, I condone extreme care and suggest that contact with the local authorities be made immediately.

Hornblower is short, around two and a half feet in height, has green eyes, brown hair, and has been described as ‘rat-like’ by several relatives and associates. He was last seen wearing a dark green waistcoat, brown breeches, a black cloak, and a brightly colored vest, though it is most probably that he has found new garb. Any persons fitting his description should be searched without delay.

In addition, one Opal Boffin is offering a modest reward for the capture of the fugitive, which has been augmented with a sizable bounty from me. Bringing Hornblower to justice is of the utmost importance, as his information may lead to exposure of other illicit activities in the Four Farthings. Those who receive this dispatch should consider it their duty to make all of these facts known to their surrounding communities. This dispatch has been sent to inns, taverns, estates, and county seats throughout the Shire. Locations that Hornblower has frequented in the past include the Hornblower Estate, the Drooping Willow Inn, and Hardbottle Hollow in the Southfarthing, Crickhollow and Bogmorton Tavern in the Eastfarthing, the Boffin Estate and Long Cleeve in the Northfarthing, and the Green Dragon Inn in Bywater.

There followed, after this paragraph, a rather large, relatively accurate ink sketch of the accused, with his name in large, thick print below the rendering, and more listed information.

Tobias Hornblower III – Charged With:
-Funding of Orcish activities, marauders, and ruffians
-Indirect participation in the subjugation of the Shire
-Indirect counts of assault and battery
-Numerous counts of petty larceny
-Grand larceny
-Murder

Paladin Took, Thain of the Shire,
Year 1433 by the Shire Reckoning,
The Great Smials, Tuckborough

[starkat]

Gwenneth had not been amidst sucha flower garden since leaving home. The young elf was taking her time going through the flowers before choosing ones for her boquets. She smiled to herself as she worked. I know Ginger only suggested one, but I think that the Cook might enjoy a small surprise. I hope it is ok.

The young elf maid felt a momentary flash of nervousness. When she saw the next group of flowers, her butterflies disappeared. "Ginger!" she called. The flowers before her were unfamilier to her. They were beautiful though.

[Gird]

The now disheveled man watched as the actual inn keeper showed up. The hobbit that had been talking to him had now forgotten his presence completely. This might be good for now. As his first attempt at outright taking over the inn had well... not gone so well, he thought it best to lay low for a while. The hobbit leader, or the one that talked proper, had gathered the innkepper Aman in close and they started conversing in hushed voices. Interesting. The man thought to himself, and he leaned in close to the huddle to try and figure out what was going on.

What he got from the bit of the conversation was that the proper one was an official of some position in the Shire, and that he had been sent here to catch a felon of some sort. He glanced over theirshoulders and caught a glimpse of a letter, just enough to get what he wanted; a name. Tobias Hornblower.

The man stood up as quickly and inconspicuously as he could. <i>This 'criminal' could be of use for me in my schemes of domination. He must be quite cunning to have subversed capture thus far. And his acts must have been quite notorious to have the Thain's men out to arrest him.</i>

"Well, I'll be minding my own business passively now." he said to no one in particular, but as to cover up what he was scheming.

[Witch_Queen]

Cree didn't know what to say. Fáinu had caused so much of her troubles and yet she still went back to him. She didn't know what else to do. "Fáinu, I will not hearken you to do anything. I have to do things myself and I have to realize that even with you here I am alone. I can't stop what is happening to me. There is no way possible that I know of. My curse shall not become yours. If you choose to leave and not turn back that is fine. I will only move on with what ever life I have left." Cree had no-idea what she was saying. Nothing actually matter anymore.

Avalon is gone and I only now have to worry about everything else. Fáinu can't help me anymore. He never could help me. Cree sat there remembering the past. "Fáinu, do you remember the day you saved my life. It seems so long ago." Her voice seemed warmer than usual. A smile finally appeared on her face. "Fáinu, I'm sorry for what I have done to you. I should have let you leave when you wanted to. I'm not going to "force" you to stay here with me."