The Green Dragon

[The Barrow-Wight]

Barrow-Wight sat as his table nursing a beer and writing steadily in his journal. Over the several evenings he had sat quietly in The Green Dragon, he had been making notes on the talents of the various storytellers. Already he had scribbled several pages in his messy, almost illegible handwriting, and he was beginning to get a clear picture of many people gathered in the room.

Some were obviously talented bards. Garen’s poem, recently sung, had been quite good, and Barrow-Wight, not normally one who appreciated such verse, had found it enjoyable. It had been a welcome break from the idle chatter that had filled the place for so long. He wrote down the name Mithadan with a note to thank him for encouraging conversations of more substance. Barrow-Wight had not lingered at the Dragon to hear meaningless quips, so he greatly appreciated that the focus of the room had turned back toward the telling of tales.

He glanced over to where Dwarin was adding wood to the fireplace. The Dwarf was doing a great job keeping the inn running. People had been unsure if hobbits would warm up to a dwarven host, but they obviously had. As long as he kept them well fed, it was unlikely Dwarin would have any feuds with the locals.

Findorfin’s shout caught his attention. He had been one of the chatters that so often spoke in such short bursts, but lately he had improved with longer speeches. House rules generally stated that all speakers should have at least two paragraphs to say, or it wasn’t worth saying. Hopefully, he and others would consider speaking at greater length, but less often. After all, The Green Dragon was opened to see what writing abilities people were willing to display. No doubt everyone in the room was eager to show they understood what was expected.