The Golden Perch Inn

[Eönwë]

Songo just sat there, staring at nothing, realised that he had been talked to.
"sss. s'my name, it is, Erfoot D'genss" he replied. Ah, it was Jims', was it? That pesky son of a pub-owner who was losing business. Why was he here?
Just as he was about to ask him he realised that something was going on between a dwarf and and elf some way along the bar. He tried to look but his eyes were too blurry at such a distance. So he went up to them, to see, but before he knew what had happened, he was lying flat on his back, head facing the ceiling, and unable to move. Everything went black.

He woke up what seemed like few hours later (he didn't know precisely how long) with a splitting headache. He vowed never to drink alcohol again. As he stood up, looking around, he realised that the elf and dwarf had moved, but the two men were still conversing. He went over to them, and heard the murmur of their conversation. He waited for a suitable moment, and, as soon as there was a pause, he asked Jims "What brings you here?"

[shaggydog]

Jims too shared Haves' lack of knowledge of the ways of dwarves. To his recollection there had never been one staying at their inn at Bree. He wasn't even sure he had heard tell of any frequenting Bree itself these past many years. The times were strange and growing more disquieting by the month. Many an unusual tale was being told of unexpected travelers crossing through the land. But these most put down to mere fancy, or too much ale. Jims himself had paid them little mind, as the business of keeping body and soul together was becoming more difficult with each passing season. It was with great interest then that Jims pricked up his own ears to catch the dwarf's reply to Haves' question.

Hairfoot Droggins never did reply to Jim's own inquiry, but after a moment of silence, the hobbit had slipped off the seat next to Jims, wandered away, and then without warning crumpled to the floor. Jims had been on the point of getting up to assist the little fellow, but Songo had very quickly come to and regained his own, albeit wobbly, feet. Jims kept an eye on him as he negotiated a somewhat erratic path back to the bar, coming to rest near Jims' elbow. "Whasbringsyoushere?" tumbled from Songo's lips, and Jims took it to be a question meant for him.

With a mix of slight concern and more amusement, Jims replied evasively, "Oh, just getting out and about, you know. It never hurts to see what others in the business are up to. Perhaps pick up an idea or two." Jims' errand wasn't exactly secret. He only wished to pick his own time and place for discussing business matters with the barkeep, or the inn's owner. That thought once again brought to mind Jims' stabling needs, and, hoping the barkeep had had time to sort things between the dwarf and the elf, he called out down to that end of the bar,

"Oh, by the way, I turned my horse into the first empty stall in your stable. I hope that's alright. I didn't see the stable boy about. With this downpour, I think I'll be staying the night over, if you have accomodations."

Awaiting the barman's reply, Jims said casually to Haves, "Are you stopping here, or do you think you'll press on once the weather clears?"

[Groin Redbeard]

The scuffle between the dwarf and the elf had been brief, Dick had intervened before things could get heated. The elf had not said a word during all of the commotion, and when it was all over he had just gone back into his transe, but what he was really doing Groin could not tell.

He had contented himself to sitting alone in a chair by the window. It was still raining outside, but it had greatly decreased. Groin couldn't stand it any longer, he got up from his chair, walked over to the bar, gave Dick another gold coin for his good services, and thanked him again. He then grabbed his battle axe and hoiseted it over his shoulder.

When he was outside he withdrew a cloak and threw it about himself. He left Stock by the West road, and in due time made it to the Blue Mountains and met his cousin Grioger. Groin dwells there to this day.

[shaggydog]

After further desultory conversation with Haves, Jims attention was caught by the exit of several of the taproom’s patrons, including the dwarf who had been involved in some minor dispute with the elf at the far end of the bar. Listening more closely, he realized the rain had subsided, or perhaps stopped altogether. At least, the storm had abated to the point where travelers felt they could resume their journeys, or locals could make their way home for the afternoon tasks. Jims thought again of his horse, and hailed Dick, who opined that any of the empty stalls would do as well as another, but that Jims might want to make whatever instructions he had for the beast’s care known to Will, the stable boy.

To that end, Jims hoisted his long frame from the comfortable seat at the bar and, foregoing his cape, ambled out the small circle of door into the inn yard. The sun was now shining, albeit fitfully, from behind clouds which still scudded quickly across a pale blue sky. Jims crossed the yard to the stable and stepped inside.

At the third stall, the one into which Jims had somewhat hurriedly shoved the animal earlier, he stopped, perplexed. The half door to the stall stood open, no horse within. Thinking perhaps he had used the one beyond and mistaken himself, Jims pushed the open half door to, and peered into the stall beyond. This one held a small grey donkey though. Now totally flummoxed, Jims quickly made a search of all the stalls in the small stable. But his mount was nowhere to be seen. Could it be that the stable lad had found the beast during the storm and, having some reason to do so, removed it and stabled it elsewhere? This seemed entirely unlikely, however, the alternative was not one he liked to contemplate. As worthless a beast as the old screw was, if Jims, through his own negligence had failed to secure the stall door, and the horse was now off wandering the roads, it might mean hours spent searching for the wretched thing.

With a groan, Jims turned to go back in the inn to at least inquire where he could find Will, having seen no sight of him in the yard or stable. A flutter of something caught his eye though, and Jims stooped lower, crouching down beside the stall door to see what it was.

The grizzled grey tuft had caught in a splinter of wood. It moved lightly with the breeze which puffed through the stable door, and as Jims reached to pluck it, he overbalanced and struck out a hand to keep from falling. Pulling his hand back from the spot in which he had thrust it, Jims looked with curiosity at the muddy print which lay beneath. It was the size of his own hand, even a bit bigger perhaps. With a growing realization, Jims inspected the strands of hair he now held more closely. He hoped he was wrong, dead wrong, and that someone, even the inn keeper perhaps, kept a huge dog, for protection and giving alarm when needed most likely. Clutching this hope as tightly to his heart as he clutched the hair to his chest, Jims hurried back to the common room.

Approaching the bar, Jims said, rather breathlessly, “I say, Dick, my horse seems to have gone missing during that downpour. Do you think Will could have moved it, do you have another stable?” At the look of surprise on the barkeep’s face, Jims concluded that no such thing had happened. So he went on, trying to keep the growing dismay out of his voice. “I’ve found this stuck in the stall door.” He stretched out his hand, displaying the fur. “Do you have a dog, perhaps, a really big dog? I thought . . . well, I thought perhaps a dog might have, well, you know, been sniffing around and perhaps the horse got excited, and, well . . . ran off.” Jims’ voice trailed off, knowing that in order to get his old nag excited it would have taken something quite out of the ordinary.

[Gwathagor]

Far away from the little wooden inn, the tall warrior elf wandered through visions of the past, oblivious to his surroundings.

In the aftermath of the War of Wrath, he had returned to Doriath in search of the only maiden to whom he had ever given his love. As he dreamed, he relived the sheer, bleak desperation that he felt when he found the forest deserted and the caverns largely empty. The Queen had gone, and all her court with him. Only squatters and beasts had he found dwelling in those hallowed halls beneath the forest floor, and they knew nothing of the whereabouts of Melian, Elloth, or any of the great people that had once inhabited Menegroth. Sick with sorrow, he had wandered thence into the wilds of Beleriand. His heart was broken; he had failed Elloth.

He would have died witless in the hills, but a band of wandering warriors found him sick and unconscious and brought him east, away over the Blue Mountains. There, while Numenor rose out of the sea and Beleriand foundered, he regained his strength of body and mind. However, his memory was forever lost, and though he became a great hunter and warrior again, he knew nothing of his past save that it was dark and sad.

He recalled these days, which, though hard, were fulfilling. In Eriador and Rhovanion they hunted the creatures of Darkness, meeting Elves and woodsmen and tall mariners as they traveled from place to place. He also recalled the brief visions which he began to have - visions of an slender fair-haired elf-maiden clad in blue. Though they troubled him, he treasured the visions, for he knew they came from his past. Over time, he grew again to love this vision again, though he never learned her name. And as they journeyed across the lands of Middle-earth, he inquired after an elf-maiden of her description. But no one had seen or heard of her.

Eventually the men died, one by one, of wounds or of age, but the elf lived on, growing canny, stern, and hard. He had been sad when the last old warrior had died with an arrow through his heart and buried him where he fell. Alone then he began to travel, battle-axe and longsword in hand, ever hunting creatures which prowled in the darkness. And ever he grew more estranged from those he sought to protect, burying his love for Illuvatar's Children beneath his hate for the Creatures of Morgoth and Sauron, until he even forgot the lovely elf-maid who haunted his empty past. But now and then he would ponder the strange device upon his scabbard: a rose amidst a field of fiery stars.

"Gwathagor" people began to call him, Shadowblade, for he came out of the shadow of Beleriand, and in the darkness he dwelt, and was like a shadow himself, so silent and swift was he. He took the name.

Of these things and many others he dreamed, drawing strength from these memories which he had so long buried. Hours passed; people came and went at the inn.

There was a crack of thunder and he awoke with a start, head down on the broad wooden counter in the Golden Perch. He caught the end of the new fellow's sentence.

"Do you have a dog, perhaps, a really big dog?"


It took a moment for the elf to realize the implications of this, and for the man to finish speaking.

"They are wolves," he said to the man. "Great wolves from the cold north, and they hunt in packs. I killed several this afternoon and fought one last night, which may have been their leader."

He was torn now between two roads. The first was the trail of the Draugring, the Cold Wolves, which had led him to this provincial village. He could not leave these hobbits defenseless against a terror which they knew not. The second was the path which had just risen before him, like a horizon of land before a lonely mariner: to find Elloth, who surely lived...surely. The locket left little doubt in his mind, and he found himself yearning above all else to find her again.

With an effort, he forced the urge down, subjecting it to his duty, as he had done for so many ages before.

"Call me Gwathagor," he said to the man, standing before him and extending his hand. "Can you wield a sword?"

[shaggydog]

Jims eyebrows rose into his hairline at the elf’s statement and then question. Great wolves from the cold north! And this fellow had already killed several? Jims had little knowledge of wolves of any kind. The tales he had heard at the Rose of the Fell Winter of 2911 seemed to his ears stories meant to scare little children. That such creatures might yet again be prowling this far south was practically unbelievable. That such creatures might have something to do with his missing horse was fantastical! And the thought that Jims might know anything about how to wield a sword, well, that was the most laughable part of the whole situation.

Extending his own hand and not even registering the fact that he was shaking hands with an elf, Jims replied, “Sword? No. I’m no fighter. Used to do a bit of wrestling at the market day fairs now and again.” Jims realized how idiotic that must have sounded to the elf, who was no doubt an experienced warrior, if the rumors of their great age could be credited. “Neither am I a tracker or hunter,” Jims continued, “and it may well be that this fur and the paw print I saw in the stable just now were from earlier. Perhaps we should take another look and see what other signs there may or may not be.”

Jims hoped the elf’s inquiry as to his swordsmanship was an indication of the fellow’s intent to once more take up this ongoing battle with the wolves. If he could get Gwathagor to take the lead, Jims felt he might then be able to adopt a much more minor role in the search for the missing horse. Glancing over to the fireplace, where he had rested his staff against the wall next to his now dry cloak, Jims gulped nervously. Remembering his manners at the last moment, he said, “And I’m Jims, by the way. Jims Barleycorn, of Bree. My family runs the Rose and Thistle there.”

Feeling he was beginning to gabble, Jims shut his mouth with an almost audible snap, and awaited Gwathagor’s reaction.

[Eönwë]

Songo sat bolt upright. How long he had been asleep he did not know. He lifted up his blurry eyes but everything just blended into one. He had probably drunk too much alcohol. He'd never tried it before, and he didn't know it would be like this. He thought it would taste much nicer, and the way the old men and hardened travellers talked about ale glorified it far beyond what it was. But he liked mead. No wonder, since it was made out of honey.

He blinked furiously until the outlines of things slowly started to take shape again. Jims wasn't near him, but that was only to be expected. He would have moved away from a sleeping drunkard, and he had snored no doubt.

Before he knew what was happening, he was telling a crowd one of his tales, and they were listening intently. And it wasn't just children, which he expected, but also adults. In fact, there were only three children in the whole group. Time flew past, and soon he was immersed in a game of riddles with two other men. After answering a particularly hard one, he realised that his mind had gone blank, and he couldn't think of one. He knew it was bad form, but he used one of the lesser-known old Rohirric ones:

"Swings by his thigh / a thing most magical!
Below the belt / beneath the folds
Of his clothes it hangs / a hole in its front end,
stiff-set and stout / it swivels about.

Levelling the head / of this hanging tool,
its wielder hoists his hem / above his knee;
it is his will to fill / a well-known hole
that it fits fully / when at full length

He's oft filled it before. / Now he fills it again."

As he finished, the two men cracked and laughed for a bit, and then asked him to repeat it. This he did, but they could not puzzle it out. In the end they gave up, so he had to tell them an answer.
"A key," he said. And their faces filled with understanding, and they marvelled at the cleverness of it.

But then he saw Jims come through the door with a worried look on his face. He tried to go up to him, but Jims was already talking in a hurried conversation with Dick. Then in wonder he saw the elf that had been motionless for hours suddenly stir. He and Jims exchanged a few words, and then they were off. Songo quickly followed, he knew they were up to something, and he did not want to miss this adventure.

He caught up with them just outside the door.

"So where are you going?" asked Songo.

[Folwren]

Dick stared after the elf and man with an open mouth. He remembered himself suddenly and shut it again a moment later, but it nearly popped back open when the elderly hobbit, Songo, went running after them.

“A horse missing...and Will missing, by all accounts...this does not sound good, Dick,” the innkeeper said to himself. He cast an experienced eye over the common room. Everyone was content, drinks were filled, and the fire was burning merrily. Someone had opened the window to allow the damp, cool air in, along with some light.

Satisfied that everything was well in hand, Dick took the chance to hurry outside and check on matters himself.

[Folwren]

Dick was puzzled and very worried. Will was no where to be found and it was getting dark. The horses were hungry, the water buckets were almost empty, and the stable hand was no where near. He slowly walked back up the stable aisle, thinking.

Hey! There was a noise in the stall up ahead! Perhaps Will had come back in after all! Dick hurried forward, opening his mouth to say something, when all of a sudden -

“Oh!” the hobbit lass exclaimed, jumping backwards after they almost collided. Dick blinked. This wasn’t Will. “Ah, do you – are you - working here at the Inn? I need – er, would like a room. If you have one. Please.”

“Oh,” Dick said, nearly just as confused as she. “Yes. Yes, of course there is room. Come. Let’s go in. I am Dick Boffin, landlord.” He gave his best welcoming smile. “Pleaes come in.” He led the way out of the stable and across the yard to the inn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Songo and Jims coming back from their wolf hunt. The elf was not with them. Dick and the hobbit lass stepped inside.

“Rowan! We have another guest.” Rowan threaded her way across the common room. “Please take her to a room suitable for her. She needs a place to sleep. One you’re settled in, miss,” he said, turning to Mirabell, “you can come back into the common room here and have some warm supper to eat.”

[Undómë]

Rowan hurriedly put down the tray of mugs she’d brought from the kitchen, sighing as she did so. She’d hoped to have a leisurely sit-down as she wiped the last of the rinse water from the just washed cups; some time to look about the common room and see who was about.

Ah well...best laid plans... she heard her old Gran’s voice whisper at the edge of her thoughts.

She wiped her damp hands on the dishtowel she’d slung over her shoulder and laid the cloth wadded on the stack. Best see to the new guest, she thought, get her settled in...then, perhaps there would be time for a more leisurely task.

Perched precariously on the edge of the table just outside the kitchen’s door, the mugs gave a dull clink-clunk as the Hobbit’s foot knocked against the near table-leg. No, you don’t! she muttered. Pausing midstep, Rowan reached out her right hand toward the teetering pile. She slid the tray deftly toward the middle of the table top, turning slightly to steady the stack with her left hand.

Taking note that the mugs were no longer in danger of toppling, Rowan hurried over to where Master Boffin stood with the gold-haired lass. She gave the new guest her best smile, motioning for her to follow along.

‘I’m Rowan,’ she said, glancing back as she opened the door to the hallway which led into the hallway that wound into the hill. She picked up a fat candle from the wooden box just inside the entryway and lit it from the lantern near the door. ‘I think this room might suit,’ she said, smiling as she opened the door to the fourth room down the hall and gestured for the lass to enter.

There was a cot against the far wall with a colorful, thick quilt covering it and a fat, soft looking pillow resting against the plain headboard. A woven rag rug ran alongside the bed. On the left wall was an oaken chest of drawers with a pitcher and washbasin sitting atop it, and next to them a clean white towel and wash cloth. A little clay jam-pot perched on the edge of the chest nearest the bed, its riot of flowers from the Inn’s garden making a final welcoming statement.

Rowan lit the lantern on the bedside table. ‘There’s a bath room just at the end of the hall...shared. Let me know if you want a bath. Otherwise,’ she went on, picking up the pitcher from the chest, ‘I’ll just fetch you some nice hot water and you can have a quick wash up here in your room.’ She swept her glance about the neat little room. ‘Is there anything else you need? I’d be happy to get it for you...Miss...??? Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.’

[Arry]

Had anyone been listening they would have thought a pair of Hobbits were arguing with each other. As it was, it was only Will discussing out loud with himself the post he’d received that day. His mother, the redoubtable Pearl Longholes Hayward, had decided to come to Stock in two weeks time with two of her daughters-in-law, Sapphire and Lily, to buy a bolt or two or so of sprigged cotton and some yards of lace. Never mind that there was a perfectly adequate cloth shop in Crickhollow that had served her family well over the years.

He puffed on his pipe; clouds of smoke hung thickly above his head. He worried the mouthpiece and stabbed the air with it as he read the letter again and then once more. Read between the lines, that is. It wasn’t cloth she’d come to inspect is what he expected, is what he knew. She’d come to see what her youngest son was ‘doing’ with his life. Translation: had he found a suitable lass yet? And when would he be tying the knot? She’d seen through the letters he’d sent of how well he was doing at the inn; had enough of his fending off questions of settling down like his brothers had done. His mother would be coming to set him on the ‘right’ track.

It was drawing toward dark when he roused himself from his brown study. The big oak beneath which he’d sat, and paced, and leaned against in his bemusement cast a deeper shadow now and from a ways beyond it, the restless sounds of the horses and ponies broke in upon his thoughts. Will folded his mother’s letter into a small square and jammed it deep into one of his vest pockets.

Back in his familiar routine he pushed away his irritation and fell to taking care of the animals and their needs. Fresh hay, some oats, clean water . . . and the occasional apple for those whose insistent noses nudged him as he tended to them. They listened to his troubles with tail-twitching patience, seemingly swishing away problems with an easy flick of ear and tail.

Having set the stable in order, Will made his way toward the Inn. A plate of nice, fat mushrooms would put him in a better frame of mind, he thought. Fried crispy, in butter. And a pint of dark, strong stout to further smooth away the edges. Yes, that would do nicely!

And maybe he could talk to Master Boffin, too. Perhaps he could be gone when his mother came on her shopping expedition. Buying trip for the Inn? Something that would take him away for a great deal of the time she’d be here. Or a building project – new roof for the stable, maybe. Something to keep him occupied long into the evening and away from his family . . .

[Girl in the Grass]

Delighted with the cosiness of the room, Mirabell gave a tired smile as she spoke to Rowan. "Mirabell Took, but for the most part people call me Mira. The room looks lovely; I don't think I'll be needing anything but that hot water you mentioned." Rowan smiled and said, "Alright then, Miss Mira, I'll be back in a few minutes after you've settled in."

As the other hobbit closed the door behind her, Mira took another look around the room. Stepping over to the bed, she ran her hand over the quilt, admiring the different colours of fabric and the thick quality. The flowers gave the room a lovely scent, and as she sat down on the bed Mira inhaled deeply, enjoying the sweet odor. Just as she flopped back onto the bed with a sigh of contentment, there was a knock at the door and she heard Rowan's voice: "Miss Mirabell? I've got that hot water you wanted."

Mira went to the door and opened it, thanking Rowan for the water, and shut it again. She quickly washed and combed her hair, her stomach starting to rumble with hunger. When she was satisfied with her appearance, Mira left her room and proceeded downstairs to the common room, wanting nothing more than a hot cup of tea with a sufficiently large meal. As she entered it from the hallway, she glanced around for Rowan. Seems as though she's not here, Mira thought to herself, and her stomach grumbled in protest. She sat down at an empty table to wait for Rowan to reappear, hoping it wouldn't be too long.

[Tiffany Aching]

The sandy-haired pony gave a decided toss of his mane as his mistress tugged on the reins. From this short distance Cookie caught the scent of fresh hay – and oats! His nostrils widened taking in the heady promise of food. He was a stout little fellow given to as little exertion as he might manage and as much feed as he might appropriate. He looked back over his shoulder at Miz Miribelle with as encouraging an expression as he could muster.

‘Yes, yes, I know my little dear. I’m hungry, too.’ Miribelle Rushybanks sat fully upright on the little cart’s padded seat and looked about the darkening yard. At a distance, she saw a familiar figure just heading up the few steps to the Inn.

‘Will?’ she called out in a firm voice. ‘Is that you?’ She thought she saw him turn toward her and she waved. ‘Come help me won’t you with Cookie.’ She set the brake and stepped down from the cart, wrapping the reins about the brake’s handle once she’d set both feet firmly on the ground.