The Golden Perch Inn

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

During the dwarf's speech, Rory observed him with interest. The bearded customer kept making funny movements, sometimes the hobbit was even afraid that he is going to break something. Not that the tale about the wolves would make the carter excited: if anything, it sounded dangerous. But still it was something new, something interesting enough to mention to casual travelmates. At least it was better than the nonsenses the dwarf was saying about the elves. At first, Rory was afraid that he starts to recount some dull events that happened in some far-away land. Fortunately, he chose not to. The wolves on the edge of the Old Forest were surely a far more exciting topic.

Quite unsettling, too, however. The carter scratched his back. He was not that stupid: his father recounted him about the Fell Winter when the wolves entered the Shire, three years before Rory was born. Rory's father and his uncle Sigismond were among the young hobbits who helped Mr. Puddifoot and Mr. Maggot to drive the wolves off the frozen fields of the Marish. And it was around that time when uncle Sigismond died... Rory shuddered. The journey towards the eastern borders of the Shire did not seem as pleasant as before. Who knows what can happen? The dwarves surely have a tendency to exaggerate, but still, if there are wolves... Rory never saw a wolf, except for a moth-destroyed tail that belonged to his mother; a trophy from his father's one and only adventure. But could it be possible that a wolf would slip into the Shire, right in front of the watchful hobbit guards of the Hay Gate? No, that was not probable. Maybe the outside lands were getting a little bit more dangerous now, but the Shire was perfectly safe. As always.

Rorimac placed the empty mug away on the table. With disgust, he looked at the dwarf's revealed scar. Nevertheless, he thought, I would not like to stay outside at night. If possible, he would rather spend the night under cover of his cousins' house in Bucklebury. And the sooner he returns home to Poppy, the better.

"You should put some way-bread on that," he advised matter-of-factly to the dwarf, pointing at the scar. "Old widow Brownlock does that and it helps. My Buttercup once cut his leg on some sharp stone, and she helped us; she poured some water with the way-bread on it and it ceased to bleed. And later, my Buttercup could walk without any problems and it disappeared after a few days, really."

He picked up the empty mug. "It was pleasant to talk to you, Mister Dwarf, but I really have to go now. Hopefully Buttercup did not make a mess in front of the inn. He's capable to do that, you know. Once, during our stay at Mr. Madoc Hornblower, he ate whole patch of cabbage and broke a hoe that was lying there. Don't ask me how he did that. Well, of course he did not eat all the cabbage... he only started every head and then threw it away. But he had calmed down since then, you see. After that he did it only... once. But since I peppered his tongue after he did that, I believe he's not going to try that again. Still, who knows what might be going on in his head, eh? Well, have a nice day, sir, and... goodbye."

[Groin Redbeard]

"Farwell master Brandybuck." Said Groin continuing to puff on his pipe after the carter had left the table. He stared at the elf who was sitting alone at the other end of the Inn. Groin noticed the blood that stained the elf's cloak. Probably got into trouble with them wolves last night.

Groin began to feel restless, he tapped his pipe on the table extinguishing it, and placed it pack into his pouch. He reached over for his axe and began to strap it on his back. A long walk in the woods would subdue the restlessness that he was feeling. Groin reached for the door handle and stepped outside, breathing deeply. He set off down the road at a leisurely pace and noticed a group of hobbits making their way to the Inn.
"Ahh!" he said aloud in frustration. Too many people around here for his liking, and set off down the path at an even faster rate, but he planned on coming back to lodge at the Inn for the night. After all, Toller hadn't finished his story.

[Groin Redbeard]

After Groin had walked for awhile he decided to take a rest beside an old tree stump. He breathed a sigh of content; it was a lovely country he was walking through. Perhaps one day he would settle down here in his old age, but for know he had too many places to go and adventures to be had. He leaned back and closed his eyes, making himself comfortable for a midday nap.

His moment of peace was soon interrupted by group of children running up from behind him. Surprised Groin tried to jump to his feet, but his jump was more of a roll. He tumbled down landing on his back; the children stopped running and laughing and stared down at the dwarf in amazement.

Groin slowly rose to his feet, and walked over to the small children. The youngest was clutching a rag doll and looked as if she was going to burst into tears any second.
"Now, now there. I'm not going to harm’ya." Groin said, kneeling down to the hobbit's level.
"You just startled me that's all." Groin smiled trying to look friendlier. One of the five hobbit children stepped forward timidly.
"We're sorry to have bothered you mister dwarf." he said rather nervously.

Groin stood and moved over to the stump to sit down.
"No bother at all. What be your names?"
"My name is Seredic, sir, and these are my brother's and sister's: Fred, Maple, Dorlind, and Daisy Boffin." Groin whistled in amazement.
"Five siblings, and my mom and dad thought one child was a handful." Groin chuckled to himself.

"Hello." Groin looked down at the small hobbit girl, who was tugging at his pants.

"Well hello there," Groin reached down and picked up the girl, placing her on his knee.

"And what is your name little one?"

"Maple Boffin." she said, blushing a little.

"Well hello Maple. My name's Groin Redbeard, and what might you be doing on a fine day such as this?"

"Picking daisies for momma’s windowsill."

"Now is that so," Groin said, making it sound as if she said something magnificent.

"I'm glad you youngsters came along," Groin stood up placed the girl down, while beginning to dig into his pouch. "You see I've been traveling around these here parts for a long time, and my pack is getting too heavy for me to carry. And I was wondering if you kids could take some of the weight of my back." Groin extracted his hand from his pouch revealing a handful of sweets.
"I'd be mighty obliged if you'd take these off my hands." Groin said stepping closer, offering it to them.

The kids shyly reached out and grabbed three, or so, each.
"Thank you mister!" said Seredic who was smiling from ear to ear.
"Not at all youngster, now don't let me keep you from your daisy hunting, go on now." and with that Groin shooed them off smiling and laughing to himself all the while.

After the hobbits had left, Groin settled down again. He leaned back against the stump and closed his eyes once again, and drifted to sleep.

[Sephiroth]

Ethelgar strolled, hoping to leave his past behind his feet. Living with the woodsmen was nice, safe and peaceful; but once again his heart wanted the freedom only the road could give. Deeply, he feared leaving with dreams of triumph and returning with nightmares of defeat; nevertheless, he left, his sword sheathed, his soul crushed by the need for glory.

Countless days he walked, the sun blinding his eyes, the rain freezing his body. And Ethelgar thought about his friends and family he didn’t see in a decade, about the thieves he fought, and felt lonely. Day after day he expected Death behind the bushes, as a wild beast, a bandit, a hole in the ground. He didn’t fear it, though: the thought of being killed in the middle of nowhere was, in a way, soothing. After all, Death would be a relief from the goals he set for himself – but obviously he wouldn’t give up without a good fight. However, a long distance he roamed, and Falconbeak, the sword he got from his grandparent, did not drink any hostile blood.

And now he was near the village the little people he encountered called The Shire. Ethelgar was not too interested in that kind of place: evidently it was not somewhere good to look for an adventure. Despite that, he paced through the region admiring its beauty, looking for a good place to rest his bones. As he walked, memories came to his mind, thoughts of insignificance and of greatness. If I were a hobbit… and if I were as tall as I am now… I would definitely be a king among them. I have to discover something great in myself… maybe… so I can show everyone how I can be significant. I need to be significant. Everything was distant, blurred, and the man became lost in his thoughts, wandering mindlessly.

But reality came back to him, as he finally perceived an Inn’s door just across the road. He crossed the street and entered without a second thought; his mind once again detached from his body.

“Sir, the sword, please”, said a hobbit, probably the innkeeper. A standard procedure, thought the man. Maybe every city should ask for the weapons before anyone could enter. Maybe anyone shouldn’t carry any weapons at all. But… where could we find glory, fame and…

“Sir… the sword”, recurred the innkeeper, and his voice was a ticket back to the inn.

“Falconbeak you have, sir. I’m sure you’ll keep an eye on it”, Ethelgar nodded, gently giving him the sword.

The man then sat down, his thoughts deep into his memories. It was undeniably a hideous scene: the brown coat was covered in mud; the boots torn; a small scar stained the left side of his face. Despite that, one who could look deep would glance something singular, maybe great about him.

Ethelgar lastly ordered ale and waited, perceiving no one but himself.

[Gwathagor]

In the recesses of his mind, the warrior-elf wandered again under beneath the leafy boughs of ancient Doriath. Motes of dust swam in the shafts of waning sunlight that shot down through the forest canopy, and silent song-birds flitted to and fro among the trees. Elven songs floated through the air, reaching him as if from a great distance, and he knew that they were sad songs, though he could not catch the words. And then he saw the singers, riding slowly and purposefully through the silent trees, and, as he wondered that he had not seen them earlier, he realized that the whole forest was full of a great host of mounted elves, armed with spears and with bows. A few sang softly, and some looked back, but none wavered.

Then he stood beneath a mighty, spreading oak, and he saw that he was clad in armor and a rich cloak of a forgotten hue of deep azure. At his side he wore a royal sword, and on his back was slung a great battle-axe. With him, beneath the oak, stood a fair elf-maiden, whose blue garments matched the shade of his cloak, the corner of which she held in her hand, turning it over and over, examining its hem.

Then she spoke, and, though he knew he dreamed, he heard the voice as clear and as musical as the day he had first heard it by the Mouths of Sirion.

"I know that you must leave." She looked up at him. Her shining eyes took his breath away. He had forgotten how clear they were.

"I must, though it kills me. We have been summoned; the Day of Wrath has come, and we must do our part."

"I know, and I will learn to bear your absence. I must, though it kills me." She smiled softly, and looked away west at something unseen, tears forming in her eyes and voice. She let the corner of his cloak fall.

The warrior-elf, who stood a head taller than her, gazed down at her tenderly. She braced herself and turned to him again, looking him up and down. "You look splendid; the finest of Doriath's warriors. You will return to me?"

"As soon as I may. As soon as we have driven out the Darkness, then I will return; and no sooner." His look was stern and sad, but his eyes were gentle. "I swear. I will not forget you."

"No, you won't. I have seen to that." Here she produced an intricately carved silver locket, which hung upon a fine silver chain. "This locket has my name and my emblem carved inside it. My blessing and spirit will be with you until you return. Until then, we will still have our memories...and you will have this."

He took the locket from her outstretched hand. She stepped beside him and leaned against his shoulder. He put his left arm around her, as she continued. "It will not open to any key, but only to the speaking of my name. Try it."

Then (and he knew that still he dreamed) he held up the locket in his right hand and then spoke aloud the name, her name, the name of the one he had lost so long ago.

"Elloth."

The locket opened, and the vision vanished.

A new vision took its place, and it was as barren as the former had been idyllic. The singing of the elves gave way to the sounds of clashing arms and the smell of blood. The mists of memory cleared, and he found himself on a wide plain. All around him was a great elven-host, with spears and swords in their bloody hands, their hair ragged and their eyes blazing. Looking down, he found that great mounds of slain orcs lay about his feet, and that in his left hand he held a longsword, and in his right a battle-axe. Both were stained black. Suddenly, a great cry went up from the elven host. It was answered by harsh yells and jeers, and another wave of orcs drove into their ranks. As the elves surged forward to meet the enemy, he found himself caught up in the center of the battle. He began instinctively to slash and hack, left and right, now whirling, now ducking, now leaping forward, following the rhythm of battle. Blood spattered his face and hands, but he gritted his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and continued to face each new threat as it came at him. Ever he cut his way forward, leaving in his wake a broad swath of fallen enemies. Even the other elves began to give way before his fury. Soon, he had left them all behind; he stood alone in a sea of orcs, with a growing circle of dead and dying spreading out about him. He fought on, careless and alone, possessed by the wrath of battle.

Great drums rolled, the earth trembled, and, in increasing numbers, the orcs began to flee from the field of battle. Only when he discovered that there were no more orcs, did he look up and realize that the elven-host had taken up his name, cheering him on. "Gilthalion! Gilthalion!", they cried. Then the earth quivered again, and they found themselves in the presence of gods. Silence swept over the host, and Gilthalion Gwathagor awoke in a wooden chair in the Shire, 6000 years later.

[Groin Redbeard]

Groin awoke from his slumber sometime around noon. He got up, rubbed the slumber from his eyes, and began to shake the dead leaves that were clinging to his beard.

The Hobbit children had long past left him, and were probably back at there house showing their new found daisies to their parents. He sighed and began to pick up his pack and battle axe. He still had much to see of the countryside before night fell, and he wanted to see as much as possible. So off he went, down a path leading into an open plain.

In the distance he could see a cart drawn by a small pony. Groin saw a hobbit walking besides it and wondered if it was Rory Brandybuck, the Hobbit he had talked to in the Inn. Well, even if it was Groin had decided not to bother him, besides he was probably going home to Misses Brandybuck and wouldn't like to be stopped or slowed down.

Groin walked several yards behind the cart for a few minutes until he became tired of traveling on road. 'Time to go trailblazing' he thought to himself, and did a short sprint off the road and into the bushes. Groin stopped and looked back up the road at the cart. 'What a enviously simple life that man must leed.' he thought, but it wasn't the life for him. Groin waved a silent farwell to the unknowing Hobbit, and sprinted onward into the brush.

[Dunwen]

Peri sat near a window in the Perch's Common Room enjoying the last of her meal. While it was late to having second breakfast, she'd slept later than usual, thanks to Ruby's intrusion and the confusion the little hobbit seemed to cause wherever she went. She'd heard the two sisters had left before dawn, and admitted to a shameful sense of relief at a Ruby-less inn. It was a pity in a way, because she'd rather liked the older sister, Lily.

She watched the activity of the other diners and the hobbits who waited on them as she finished her tea and a lovely seed-cake. That morning she'd dressed in a white blouse, a black bodice and a vivid amethyst-colored skirt. A purple ribbon matching the skirt completed her outfit. Having made sure Brightheart was comfortable in his stall, she'd finished unpacking and walked around the grounds of the inn. Now she was planning her afternoon.

Part of the reason she'd chosen to visit Stock was that a dear friend of hers had married a young farmer from the area. Although a sporadic correspondent, the former Chalcedony Delver had once written directions to her new husband's farm just outside Stock. Peri nodded to herself. She could visit Cece this very day.

Decision made, Peri got up from the table and turned to slip from behind it. With the noon sun shining into her eyes through the window, she failed to notice an unmoving form sitting in the shadows nearby. The hobbit girl tripped heavily over the long legs of an Elf that appeared to be sleeping in a chair and fell plump onto the floor. She thought she'd heard him referred to as "Gwathgor" or some such name.

Horrified at her clumsiness, she scrambled to her feet. "I'm so sorry sir! Please forgive me for not looking where I was going." The elf still looked asleep, but she did not want to be rude and hurry off without waiting for a reply.