The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Arry]

'Let's do the one we've just recently practiced.' Gil's instructions brought smiles to the faces of his band members.

'Ah, yes,' said Tomlin, his smile becoming a big grin. He drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle, listening for the right series of sounds. 'And you'll of course sing it . . .yes?'

Gil stepped up to the front of the stage and spoke in a loud voice. 'Here's a song for all you lads as have been struck down by beauty. And still revel in it nonetheless.


Gentlemen it is me duty
To inform you of one beauty
Though I'd ask of you a favour
Not to seek her for a while
Though I own she is a creature
Of character and feature
No words can paint the picture
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

On the evening that I mentioned
I passed with light intention
Through a part of our dear country
Known for beauty and for style
In the place of noble thinkers
Of scholars and great drinkers
But above them all for splendour
Shone the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

So my lads I needs must leave you
My intentions no' to grieve you
Nor indeed would I deceive you
Oh I'll see you in a while
I must find some way to gain her
To court her and attain her
I fear my heart's in danger
From the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty

Of the Queen of all Argyll . . .

[JennyHallu]

As Farael walked back to the table with her hairpin, Losse stalked behind him, furious at the self-satisfied way he walked. He probably thought that was very clever and smooth, pushing me over and pulling my hair, she fumed silently, glaring back at anyone who glanced her way and caressing the handle of the blade she kept in her sleeve. She'd almost flipped it out on the dance-floor in her anger, only the milling feet of the other dancers trying to get out of the way of her fall reminding her just how bad an idea that would be.

Farael handed her hairpin to the Elven lady, who was now talking to another elf, with what Losse was sure he thought was a courtly bow. Too many people...she satisfied herself with rudely and bitterly critiquing his form to herself.

The man left soon afterward, and Losse made her apologies quickly to the Elven lady, who did not seem to even notice she was there, nor even the hairpin she had set back down on the table, so engrossed was she in her companion and in the flower she twirled in her fingers, muttering to herself in Elvish. Losse palmed the hairpin, and followed quickly after Farael, apologizing angrily to those she elbowed in her haste. The band started a new set and Losse's steps became more graceful as she unconsciously walked in a near dance with the infectious music, but it didn't erase the stormy cloud brewing in her sea-gray eyes. A horrible mess involving a cat and a punch bowl had gathered quite a crowd between the guest tables at the edge of the courtyard and the inn, and it was there that she was able to catch up with Farael, gripping his elbow and spinning him around with more strength than her slim frame appeared to have.

"Can I speak with you?" she hissed angrily, indicating that they should go indoors. "Alone? I would let you explain your rudeness on the dance floor, which is more than I ought to do."

[Farael]

Dark thoughts clowded Farael's mind. He had become too attached to the elf, even though he knew nothing more than a friendship could have ever taken place. She was probably thirty years his elder, not to mention the 'friendly' brother she had. If her parents were like that, family dinners must have been a riot! He couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

The table where the ales waited (and called) for him was near, when someone gripped his elbow and spun him as if he were a rag-doll. It was a great surprise not to find a seven feet man but rather the lithe and fit Losse. He looked into her angry eyes, not even paying attention to her words and what had been a chuckle turned into laughter. This sudden bout of merriment healed the sad mood that hung over Farael, which prompted even more laughs.

Although his laughter was heart-felt and out of sheer happyness, it did little to calm the friendly thief. As soon as Farael managed to catch his breath, he bowed deeply to Losse

"Miss, I must say I understimated you," he said and tossed her a small bag containing a few coins "I believe this belongs to you. I thought it was a smart move to distract you with the hairpin deal while I took your money. A thief deserves a thief they say, and I felt it was just fair you had an example of how it felt. You must be really skilled, I was thinking I had you fooled but it was not the case."

A wink, another bow and a fit of laughter later, Farael offered Losse his hand. "I hope you can forgive me, I was outraged at what you attempted on Teluyaviel. But now I see she can look after herself and I would not want you as an enemy. How about we call a truce and maybe talk for a little while?"

[JennyHallu]

Angrily Losse snatched back her purse, expertly weighing it in her hand before tying it back to her belt with a complex knot, completely quickly with long, deft fingers. If she was surprised, not a trace of it showed on her still-stormy face.

"I don't know who you think you are, master Farael, but I have done nothing to deserve this treatment from you," she snapped, rattled by his near-hysterical laughter. "I do not find it amusing."

Then she softened, if only a little. "I suppose, if you promise not to pull my hair again, I will allow you to buy me a drink in recompense. And...I must confess my bafflement. I expected you to have cut the purse-strings, but you left them whole. Where, when, and how did you learn a Gondorian thief-knot? Just building enough of a reputation to be noticed by the professionals is hard enough, much less be taught the knot." She smiled to herself, remembering the night when she'd been accepted into that shadowy organisation. She knew this Farael wasn't a member, or, seeing the knot, he'd have let the purse be, but where had he learned it? A sailor perhaps?

[Nogrod]

Rían brought two pints from the desk, and came back to the table where Grimhorn had set himself down. He sent the other pint gliding over the table, and Grimhorn catched it comfortably. Grimhhorn grinned again, that very weird smile he had. Then he nodded, as like an approval of sorts. Reddie relaxed a bit and leaned to his chair’s back, testing different lines at the back of his mouth, about how to start a conversation.

But obviously there was not going to be any conversation for a while, for the beer really seemed to have come to a need for this giant. He wasn’t sure, whether this tower of a man regarded him anything more than the smoky air around them. Thinking about which reminded him of his pipe. He started to fill his pipe with The Old Boff’s, he always tried to have with him. Making this familiar routine kind of settled him a bit, his hands didn’t even shake any more. Rían pressed the pipe for a couple of times to make sure the bed was well laid and then lit it carefully. He took a couple of puffs, and then inhaled the smoke, making a couple of small rings from the outpouring smoke. Grimhorn seemed to delve in his own thoughts, so Rían also closed his eyes and kind of went into himself.

What a lovely sight! Two beornings, both sitting against each other at a table, in an inn full of noise and partying people. Just sitting there, both in their own worlds. They had kind of created a bubble of their own around that table. But compared to the similar bubble that lovers do manage to create almost anywhere, this bubble was not so much theirs’, as they both were in it separately.

There was something unsettling in that grin, Rían thought to himself. Just one of those grins, combined with the stature of this guy, could have scared the Morgoth out of anyone. But being a beorning himself, or at least a half-beorning raised in a beorning community, Reddie should have managed to be quite familiar with it. But still there was something hounting in it, as though it would have been familiarity of a more concrete sort, in a more particular way. And he had never even met this man! No, it couldn’t be anything like that.

Suddenly Rían had a thought that made cold chills go all around his body. His hands started to shake again, not in any clearly noticeable fashion, but he did sense it himself. Grimhorn as well seemed to have come back from his well earned rest with the beer, and had started looking at Reddie somewhat intensely. Then Rían just felt, that he would have to ask this, no matter, what the consequences would be.

“So, did you really say, you are the son of Grimgor? The son of “Grimgor Bearhand”, Grimgor “the Owl’s eye”, “the one that runs at dusk”?”. The band had started playing again, and Rían would have given all that he had, for a negative answer.

[Dunwen]

Widow Rosebank woke up suddenly, disoriented. Sounds of chatter, laughter and music drifted into her darkened room upstairs in the Green Dragon through the window she’d left slightly ajar. She must have dozed off and slept well past the start of the party tonight! Groggily, she sat up on the bed and lit the candle on the table by her bed. After a few more moments of collecting her thoughts, she stood up and stretched. Then, going to the window, she peeked out and got a partial view of the crowd below, dancing and talking. Despite her alarm at the reports of a live Orc in the vicinity of the Dragon, the Widow’s foot starting tapping along to the merry tune being played below. What finally decided her was the faint odor of the feast laid out for the inn’s guests. She guessed if she wanted to eat dinner tonight, she’d better gather her courage and join the party.

Closing and firmly latching the window (what had she been thinking to leave it open?!), Widow Rosebank pulled the curtains closed and washed up. She had thought to bring one party dress with her, impractical as it had seemed at the time, and she pulled it on happily. One of the best things about owning a dry goods business was first call on the prettiest cloth and notions that came in, and she was well-pleased with her appearance when she finished. Her long-sleeved dress was a plain shade of gray, but of such a soft, rich velvet that she felt almost like a grand lady wearing it. She had embellished it herself at the cuffs with a thick pattern of glass beads made to glitter like silver. They wound about her wrists and up to her elbows in a pattern of vines and flowers. She had sewn a matching beaded pattern around the V-shaped neckline of her dress and around the hem of the full skirt. She decided, after some thought, to leave her hair down. It wouldn’t have been quite proper for a respectable shopkeeper in Bree, but she wasn’t known in Bywater. Besides, the gray velvet somehow brought out copper lights in her brown hair.

Examining her appearance in the small mirror over the washstand, the Widow nodded firmly. “Not bad for a woman your age,” she said to her reflection. Then, checking the latch on the window and locking her door behind her, (she hadn’t forgotten that Orc), she went downstairs.

The common room was nearly deserted as she went through. She stepped out the door into a flood of light and sound. Before her a crowd of Hobbits, Men and Elves whirled in a dance to the tune played by a trio of musicians on the verandah off to one side. Across the green lawn, tables were still laden with plenty of food and several casks dispensing frothy ales. The night was cooling enough to make her thankful for her long-sleeved dress, but not so much as to make her want her cloak.

Heeding her rumbling stomach, the Widow skirted the dancing couples and made her way to the tables. Filling a plate and getting a tankard of what looked to be a fine brown ale, she found a seat at one of the tables and sat down to enjoy her dinner. She’d looked around for one of her new acquaintances, but didn’t see anyone she knew. However, if she sat long enough, someone would likely come up and talk to her. Hopefully she’d have time to eat a bit first. She started on her roast chicken, all the while tapping her foot in time to the music. Pity there wasn’t a fellow her own age to dance with, she thought. Still, it was fun to watch the crowd, especially the young folks. There was a fair amount of flirtation going on between several couples. The widow smiled to herself as she watched a hobbit lad join a pretty young woman near the ale casks. They reminded her of her own courtship so many years ago.

[Dimturiel]

Aniriel was siting at her table in front of a mug of ale. She felt better. Actually, better was not quite the word for it. There was a strange sense of euphoria inside her and she felt the need to do reckless things. Yet it was not so much because of the ale as because of the cheerfulness that surrounded her. She was so overwhelmed by it, that she had to restrain herself from shouting and dancing. Instead she got up, holding the mug in her hand, and said aloud:

"Kind lords and ladies! I have heard many travellers speak of this fair land. And they praised ever this inn and the courteous people that dwell here. And I must confess that I thought they were exagerating, as travellers much too often do to gain attention. But now, when I see with my own eyes the marvels of this place, I realise that none of those I have heard did you any justice!"

She sat down, amazed of her own daring.

"Now they will think that you are either drunk, either mad," a voice inside her head said. "And serves you right, Aniriel, for making such a fool of yourself."

Feeling her cheeks burning, Aniriel took another gulp, not daring yet to look at anybody.

[Thinlómien]

Grimhorn sat comfortably in his chair, drinking his beer. His thoughts had wandered to distant places and people. He had nearly forgotten about Rían sitting opposite him until the lad spoke: “So, did you really say, you are the son of Grimgor? The son of “Grimgor Bearhand”, Grimgor “the Owl’s eye”, “the one that runs at dusk”?”

Grimhorn's eyes narrowed slightly, but before he could answer he was distracted by the band that had just started playing. Rían was not looking at him; he watched the band. Then the young man turned and faced Grimhorn's narrowed gaze. For the older man's satisfaction, Rían looked a bit frightened. Still, the lad seemed to be waiting for the answer.

"Do you question my word?" Grimhorn asked the other beorning with a low voice. Rían looked puzzled. Grimhorn cleared his throat. Maybe this was about a different thing. "How many Grimgors you know? How many Grimgors there are?" he asked. After a small pause, he added: "I doubt you have heard of more than one. It's not so usual name."

By himself, he wondered how much did the lad know.

[Enedhilion]

The door swung open. A dark figure made his way into the Inn. As he felt the beaming eyes of curious spectators, he silently sat down at a table, in a dark corner.

Beriothien was his name. He believes he is the age of thirty four, he does not remember. Not important... The figure was tall, built, with a mysterious presence... almost an aura, if you will. He carried a long blade, he believes it dates only back to the Third Age, forged by men in West Emnet, outside of the glorious city of Edoras.

A stranger strides up to his table, "What will't be, man of the shadow?"
"Surprise me," Beriothien says. "I've never seen you in these parts. What is your business here, figure?" the waiter replies. "Just passin' through, no worries."

As the man leaves, Beriothien's mind wanders again. He is hit with an old memory, a terrible one. He thinks to himself...
I cannot believe I am still here. It was a slaughter, their attacks never ceased...never ceased...

Beriothien, a troubled man, has fought with many men, and watched his friends die at his feet. War is a terrible thing, but it cannot be avoided.

He comes back to reality. Must rest...must drink...big day coming up...better be ready...

We shall see what's in store for the man of the shadow.

[Farael]

"Gondorian thief-knot? Enhmer you rascal!!" Farael shook his head, grinning "I learned it during my time as an archer for the Army of Gondor. A friend of mine taught it to me. Thief-knot you say? well, that explains an awful lot" He chuckled, still aware of how Losse may have been feeling.

As he tried to calm down, two men walked by him. One was cloaked in shadows and Farael did not think of him twice. The second wore an armor he had seen years before and carried a spear. A spear in the shire. The thought was so odd Farael could not help but to laugh yet again. By the time the fit of laughter passed, he realized he had been holding on to Losse not to fall flat on the ground. It was a grotesque situation, a big man like himself laughing like a child and holding on to a woman for support. He looked into her eyes and could not stop the laughs yet another time.

It was a few minutes this time before Farael could catch his breath. "I... I do apologise Miss Losse, forgetting the thievery you have been very nice to talk to. Of course, you call yourself a thief and so I shall not trust you easily. I sure wish you were not, a fair lady from Gondor who may or may not have been born in a noble family who is not afraid to travel to a far-off land is unique indeed." He tried smiling his most charming smile and fighting back the chuckles that had not yet abandoned him. It would not do to laugh this time.

[Nogrod]

So it was a positive answer. This man in front of him really was the son of the “One that runs at dusk”. The son of the “Owl’s eye”... If I just could improve a bit and hold my mouth also when relaxed and comfortable after a beer or two!

Rían felt like he had quite consciously pushed his head straight into a beehive – if there ever was such a large one to accomodate his head. He kind of smiled inwardly to his lousy metaphor. Maybe he was just poking a bear that was just coming off from its’ hibernation... What a fool he was! As long as he could remember, he had just slipped this once, wanting to make sure he could be in peace, just for this night, to assure some relaxation after all those days, weeks, and months of being alert, tense and on guard all the time. And on this night, of all creatures on Middle Earth, he had literally crashed into the son of “Grimgor Bearhand”, and on the top of it all, bought him a beer and insisted on his company, then revealed his knowledge of him & his own identity! Stupid, stupid, stupid!!! A way out of this? None to be seen at the moment. I would have to come up with something, and quickly! I could so well had just made my apologies and go out to have my pipeful! Or why couldn’t I just have had some nice small-talk about the Beorning life-style and the weirdness of other cultures, thrown some jokes familiar to both of us, drank my pint and excused myself with all the best wishes to a fellow-Beorning? Then I could have rejoined Falar, Naria & others. They seemed nice folk. At least they didn’t seem to him like people in the midst of trouble, where Rían now found himself in.

Rían had thrown himself into a troll’s cave, and could not come up with a way out. The narrow stare of Grimhorn didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. It was, like this guy was just pondering about the wealth of his knowledge. There should be only the right words now. He should get over this one, for he surely knew, what was it like to meet his father. This giant propably didn’t expect this knowledge with him, yet. He would have to hold that back as long as possible.

“Well, I just thought the same, you kind of said... There sure aren’t many Grimgors around. But how can I add together the name of Grimgor and the famous name of the “Owl’s eye”? That you must have asked yourself. Well...” Immediately Rían realized, that he was as a fly in a spider’s web, by moving boldly to reach out, he had just entangled himself even tighter in to the net!

Grimhorn seemed concentrated on him. He had raised his eyebrows, clearly waiting for Rían to continue. But suddenly, there glimmered a dim light of hope! Maybe this cavetroll had just forgot Rían’s introductioning of himself! Maybe Grimhorn didn’t quite know, who he was? This was desperate, he knew that, but nothing else came to his mind at the moment.

“... Well. My father, you propably won’t know him, was a kind of a seer”. Rían tried now to avoid the name “hermit”, by which his father had been known all over the Beorningland. “He once told me to revere the “One that runs at dusk”, and at a same time Grimgor Bearhand, for they are the very same man. Now that is what my father told me. The name of Grimgor hasn’t meant much to me over the years, but the stories of the “Owl’s eye” I surely have heard, many times. And yes, I have now made the connection. But I can swear to you, with a beorning’s word, that I’ll never mention this to anyone. Rest assured, you can count on my word.”

Rían took a glance to check, that no-one was listening to his speech. Grimhorn noted his care. For a moment they were both silent. Grimhorn stared at him, clearly in his thoughts, Rían was just wondering, what this grin meant this time. He tried to lighten the situation – and possibly turn this giant’s mind to somewhere else.

“Care to taste this one?”, he asked, “It’s Old Boff’s. Very good stuff indeed”. With these words, he offered his pipe towards Grimhorn.

[Enedhilion]

I feel no cheer, even though it is right here next to me...in ALL of it gloriousness...

"I have no time to chat, Outrider. They are after me. That is all I can speak for now.", I reply.

"Tis' alright. All I want to know is what is your identity and who pursues you?", the Rohirrim asks.

"I am Beriothien, of Belfalas. That is all you need to know. And I havn't a clue. A horde of minions is on my tail. I shall confront them at dawn. I know not of their location, only of their direction. They come from the northeast, travelled around the tip of Eryn Lasgalen. No time to chat...no time to chat..."

A figure of small stature and a steady walk,made his way over the slight hillside and through the trees.A rugged and worn down cloak wraped the dwarves shoulders.The grunting and slight mumbling he emmited could be heard a good distance.In his right hand,griped tightly and being used as a walking stick,was an axe,a common weapon of his kin.Underneath the cloak,a leather vest worn over a simple black tunic.Chainmail leggings and straped leather boots covered his legs.All that rested on the dwarves head was the hood of the cloak,though it did little to hide his facial features.The long brown beard could be seen from nearly every angle,not that Janthor wanted to hide it anyway.

Finaly arriving at his destination,Janthor put the hood of his cloak down and looked around.This was a lively place for sure.Not like the parties back home,which usualy involved brawling,and rivers of ale.Turning his attention back to the door,Janthor barged into the room.The smells of pork and ale,mixed with the warmth of the fire seemed to blast the dwarf.

Janthor inhaled deeply and sighed with a slight laugh.It had been a long journey and he was long over due for a good drink.Relizing he hadnt closed the door he turned,shuting it swiftly.As he made his way to the bar he had to push his way through several times.Though this was hobbit territory,many stoped here as they went through.He was small but proud and didnt mind showing it either.Others though had to be reminded that other,shorter inhabitants dwelled in Middle Earth.

Arriving at the bar,he noticed his axe was still in hand.Standing it up against the bar,he pulled a chair over and climbed atop it.He barely stood at arms length on the chair.

"Could a dwarf get a drink around here?" Janthor said in his booming voice.A women,who had prieviously been cleaning mugs came over.She greeted him with a warm smile,and didnt seem to mind Janthors brash attitude.

"Right away master dwarf.Ale correct?"

"Aye,lass.Many thanks."

She had been gone only a few seconds befor returning with a full mug of ale.She set the mug down in front of Janthor befor turning to fill another patrons order.Janthor gripped the mug with both hands befor bringing it to his lips and taking a long drink.Upon completing the mans order she returned.

"Might I ask what brings you here? Dont get many dwarves these days."

Janthor removed the cup from his lips and set it on the bar.

"Oh nothing,nothing at all realy.Just getting out of the mountains a bit.To tell you the truth,you wont find many dwarves who want to get out of the mountain.Glorious homeland,no doubt.Even a dwarf wishes to see the outside lands once in awile though."

She gave a warm smile befor opening her mouth to speak.But befor the words could come out,she was summoned by yet another patron.

"If you'll excuse me."Sighing she made her way over to the customer.

He shrugged befor bringing the ale to his lips once again.

[Thinlómien]

Grimhorn took the pipe and had a smoke. "Good", he agreed shortly and after a while he handed the pipe back to Rían, who had obviously wanted to change the subject of the discussion. Grimhorn wondered why. This wasn't his favourite topic, but he had a reason. Why would this young man so fiercely avoid the topic of Grimhorn's father? That was something Grimhorn didn't understand. Unless the boy knew more than he let on...

"Well, Sundryboy, I probably missed what you were talking about. Swearing? What is there, that is not to be spoken about? My father is a man long dead. What is there, that you promise not to talk about?" he asked and paused for a while. Before the young man could answer, he added: "For I see no reason for being silent about my father; I wouldn't surely introduce myself as "the son of Grimgor" if there was something shameful or horrible in his name, or would I?" The lie slipped easily from his lips. Too easily, he told himself. I am getting too used to this; more used to than is honourable to be.

He knew that he knew a good deal more about Rían's father than the man probably assumed. Uneasily, he wondered if Rían knew as much of his.