The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[SonOfBombadil]

Fili had just finished his ale and was quite enjoying his experience int he inn so far, when Freddy turned to him and said. "Oh my, look at the time! I told Poppy I'd help her with the animals 'fore noon rolls around. Wanna come?" Fili didn't have to think about his answer. "Nope, I think i'm going to stay around here for a bit, I'm quite liking it!" "Yea well enjoy it while it lasts mate." came Freddy's swift reply, "See you later!"

Fili watched his friend leave, and then he turned around on the stool he was on. He took a good look around the room, just soaking it in, when he noticed something. Or rather, someone.

The young hobbit called over the innkeeper, whom he had met earlier, and asked her, "Aman, who is that hobbit lass there serving the drinks?" Fili was quite taken by the girl. All the wonder of his experience at the inn was now focused on her. He hardly heard Aman's answer.

[Gorothlammothiel]

Soronume took his drink up in his hands and took several sips, though large enough they were to be anything other than sips, yet he drank with a polite decency that none went anywhere other than between his lips and down his dry throat.

Lowering the now emptier cup, Soronume looked out into the room and noticed a maiden had walked in, but not alone. A creature of fair size sat at her feet. Her face was friendly enough, she seemed to be just as happy to be within the inn's walls as Soronume was himself. He wondered if she would like company, and, at that moment, he caught her eyes and returned a smile.

Soronume walked over to her, but not without a few quick shuffles as hobbits ran about the inn's floor with some speed. As he reached her, the creature raised it's head in his direction with a curious and cautious expression. "My lady" Soronume addressed the maiden, "may I be as bold to ask if you would desire company?" She smiled. "Certainly you may ask, but I do have company currently" she replied looking down to her feet. He smiled back, "Then perhaps I can offer you polite conversation instead? That is not something you currently have I believe?" She laughed and gestured for Soronume to take seat near her. "I am Eleniel," she began...

[piosenniel]

GREEN DRAGON INN FACTS:

It is the 4th Age, year 12. By the Shire Calendar it is year 1433 S.R. (Shire Reckoning).

King Elessar is on the throne of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor.

Mirkwood has been reclaimed by the Elves and is now called Eryn Lasgalen.

Paladdin Took, Pippin’s father, is Thain of the Shire. (Thain is an honorary title for the military leader of the Shire. The title has been held in the Took Family since the position was first established in 3rd Age 1979 with Bucca of the Marish as First Thain.) Paladdin Took dies in year 13, and will be succeeded by his son, Peregrin, ‘Pippin’, Took.

Samwise Gamgee is Mayor of the Shire, having succeeded Will Whitfoot in 1427 S.R.

The Innkeeper, in the Green Dragon Inn of this forum, is: Aman – a young woman from Rohan.

Before her, the Innkeeper was Piosenniel, and before her it was Dwarin, the Dwarf.

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Other ongoing characters in the Inn:

Ruby Brown, Hobbit – not married – server and maid

Buttercup Brownlock, Hobbit – not married – kitchen assistant and maid

Vinca Bunce, widowed, Inn Cook (character played by Piosenniel)

Derufin, the Stablemaster (played by Envinyatar)

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

Ongoing characters from outside the Inn:

Halfred Whitfoot – local Shiriff from Bywater and Postmaster for this area of the Shire; his pony’s name is Dumpling.

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Please Note:

No 'SAVES' are allowed in the Inn (except for modifications needed to be made by the Moderators or Innkeeper).

With the exception of the Innkeeper and the Moderators, no OOC (Out Of Character) comments are allowed in the Inn.

Only the Innkeeper, Amanaduial, or the Moderators move the timeline for the Inn forward.

Visitors to the Inn will need to read the posts that come before theirs to get an idea of what time it is in the Shire, what the weather is like, and what is happening.

No violence is allowed in the Inn or on Inn grounds.

Please be familiar with the rules for the Inn and Games in The Red Book of Westmarch, the first topic in the Shire.

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About Elves in Shire RPG's:

Please use this description from Tolkien when crafting an Elf:

Return of the King – Appendix F: Tolkien’s description for the Quendi (The Speakers) – the name given to the Elves by themselves after they first awoke in Middle-earth.

“They were a race high and beautiful, the older Children of the world, and among them the Eldar were as Kings, who now are gone: the People of the Great Journey, the People of the Stars. They were tall, fair of skin and grey-eyed, though their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finrod; and their voices had more melodies than any mortal voice that is now heard . . .”

Please use this as a guideline for describing your Elven character’s appearance.

[piosenniel]

It is now mid-morning in the Shire.

The sun is shining brightly. It looks to be a fair day.

[Maeggaladiel]

Eleniel smiled broadly as the cloaked figure sat down beside her.

"My name is Eleniel," she began, "And this large furry fellow inspecting your shoes is named Arrow." The dog took a moment from sniffing his boots to look up and wag his long silvery tail.

"We're from Laketown," she continued. "I own a shop there, called The Raven's Nest, and every year I take this little trip to find more merchandise. But now I'm just rambling on about myself." She gave a little laugh. Arrow, sensing her mood, wagged his tail a bit harder.

"What about you, friend?" she asked. "Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking? Are you here for business or pleasure?" She smiled good-naturedly at her grey-eyed companion and took a sip of her ale.

[Gorothlammothiel]

"What about you, friend?" she asked. "Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking? Are you here for business or pleasure?" She smiled good-naturedly at her grey-eyed companion and took a sip of her ale.

"Pleasure" Soronume replied, "always a pleasure to visit the Shire and particularly this good Inn here". He smiled. "My name is Soronume by the way, and i'm not from around here either, as I would imagine you can tell".

"Indeed" Eleniel replied quickly, "it is your accent that gives you away".

"And there I was thinking it was my appearance" The two of them laughed. "But no, I travel the lands and always seem to return here to the Shire. It should really now be a second home to me." Soronume took up his drink and realised that he was still wearing his muddy coat.

"Oh, my lady Eleniel, you must forgive my rudeness." He took the cloak from his shoulders and laid it across his lap, taking care not to brush Arrow with it, who now seemed quite content. "I am sorry that my atire is not the finest example, my last travels were long although not eventful. More an exploration than an adventure, which makes a change". Soronume stopped himself there.

"So" he began again after a minute or so of silence bringing his attention back to the table, "what is this merchandise you seek out in the Shire? Something more than you alone should be aware of?" he said with a curious, almost mischievious smile...

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Swiftly riding back over the hill, Fáinu saw the inn up ahead. he had not been far before he decided to turn back. He stopped at the stables and dismounted. He lead his horse into the stables and made sure he had enough food. He sighed and shook his head.

"What can I expect?" he mused, "All that will come of this is bitterness and sorrow."

Moving out of the stables he saw a few Hobbits dashing into the inn. They must be thirsty, he thought. He slowly entered the inn, Cree was still there. However, there was still no sign of Adu or Hama. He thought this most peculiar. Silently, he moved into the parlour and sat alone. he took out a long wooden pipe, placed some Old Toby in it and lit it. He coughed violently; he had not smoked in a long while.

[Kransha]

Someone else was sneaking about in the Dragon as well.

Tobias Hornblower.

Toby, after eavesdropping on the conversation between Amanduial and Snaveling in the stables, an event which he regretted having heard, had managed to assume his long lost vermin’s tendencies and scurry into the inn unnoticed by most, and most importantly, unnoticed by the innkeeper and her wiles. He still had to avoid her, as much as he didn’t want to, but was now also occupied by the matter of Snaveling and Aman. They went together, as the saying went in Longbottom, like weed to a pipe. Toby didn’t bother denying it. In fact, he’d been subconsciously denying the fact, or at least ignoring it. He was wistfully unaware, though he had good reason to be so. He was darkly preoccupied with his own matters. If such a thing had happened in the old days, before the ill sequence of events that had befallen Toby, he might’ve played matchmaker if he could. He done such things back in Longbottom, and was accredited among Hornblower’s for bringing about the weddings of several of his close relatives…though mostly for personal gain.

The elderly hobbit wondered now, miserably, what he would do. His inner, hobbitish instinct kept driving him to and fro like a meek little fishing boat in a storm. He continually considered making his concerns known, publicly, to someone at least. The burden was making his entire existence a continual cycle of repetition and wariness. Being circumspect might be routine for some, but Toby wasn’t used to this heightened level of cautiousness. He disliked it…he really disliked it, and had had enough. But still, he could not make up his mind about what to do. He was lost in a sea of choices, which should’ve been a good thing, but was instead more hindering and cumbersome. It made him feel obtuse, in truth, and that irked him most. He was compulsory, and though he often schemed and conspired, his skill at being decisive was always sharp and ready. For once, it had been dulled, leaving Toby at wit’s end and in the dark.

He sat in the dark as well, for the sunny light, fair and golden, streaming through the inn’s windows did not reach him. He had taken up temporary residence at a corner table, at the dark side of the Common Room, surrounded by bustling folk who obscured any view of him. He looked across the room every so often at Snaveling, or Aman, simply to see if they were looking back. He did not want them to be, if they were, but part of him wished they knew. He held his weary head in his hand and breathed deeply, hoping to calm himself. The hobbit kept glancing, almost involuntarily, at Snaveling, who looked to have become almost as much a hermit as he. But Toby knew that Snaveling had nothing to hide, and that was the difference between them…though he did, perhaps, have some things.

Suddenly, it hit him (again). He could tell Snaveling. He didn’t know why he hadn’t done it before. The eyes of Aman had not been on him all night. He’d thought of this before, but not mustered the courage to do anything. Now he could. Toby could simply approach his compatriot, take him aside, and carefully explain the situation. It was simple; painfully simple, in fact. Toby could not believe he had not done it before. His face warmed up, his ears quivered nobly, and his chest inflated. Then, like a King ascending, he stood…

And sat back down again a moment later. He couldn’t do it, no matter what circumstances. The hobbit could not bring himself to force his woes on a friend, or even break to him the news. Even a close and dear friend would probably misinterpret it, or not understand. He buried his head in his hands again, kneading his sore temples, and pulled himself back into the refreshing shade, hoping to conceal himself fully from any onlookers. There was nothing for him to do, except await the painful inevitability that was to come.

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Not far away, an obnoxious voice woke up those animals on either side of Bywater Road who were still sleeping.

“Hurry up, slowpoke!”

Scratching the swollen wart on his bulbous nose, Spurge Proudfoot dug his proud feet harshly into the grizzled haunches of an ancient pony, causing it to bray uncomfortably and, instead of quicken its pace, buck and slow to a standstill. Growling, his murderous rage at the horse full to bursting, the hobbit struck the beast mightily, creating a resounding clap that reverberated in his ears. He clasped one hand to his ear, and the other’s chubby digits tightened on reins slippery with sweat. The horse brayed more madly, and printed his weakened hooves in the dusty earth, sending up a torrent of sandy mist that manufactured a shroud around the pony and his rider. Atop the animal, the hobbit swayed and lurched, his ear-gripping hand now coming to his stomach and grasping a monstrous belly that sagged in his hand. Spurge Proudfoot was definitely not a very apt rider. Twisting his face into a foul grimace he leaned and looked forward at the mounted figure on the well-trodden road in front of him. “Why don’t you slow down, hotfoot.” He yelled towards the figure heatedly, “You know I’m not good with these blasted pennies!”

The figure not far off, barely noticeable by Spurge through the newly sprung curtain of dust, turned his pale-faced head, shaking it in an admonishing fashion. “They’re called ponies, Spurge, not pennies.” He cried back, emphasizing the word ‘pennies’ as if he were stabbing something, his voice pointed and precise. Spurge’s lip curled disdainfully, and he spurred his mount out of the dust cloud until, after much unwieldy gallivanting, he had maneuvered it up to a point on the road just behind the other horse and rider. “You think I care what they’re called?” he growled crudely, half muttering and half speaking to the other Halfling, “Doesn’t change the fact that they’re smelly, and slow, and stupid.” The other hobbit turned, flicking his long and tangled mop of hair to and fro on his head. “Well, maybe you should shut your trap.” He retorted glumly (this being the reason why he was most often called “Glumwell” Boffin, rather than his real and true name, Gromwell). His words were dry and witless, but he seemed to be more in charge of his verbal faculties. Spurge, who was known as “Splurge” to Gromwell only, often slurred words together and, despite a long and grueling education, had not mastered his own tongue.

“Maybe you should learn to ride better, so’s you don’t hafta complain all the time.”

“Maybe you should think a little before you open your big mouth, less’n you wanna fist in your face someday.”

A third voice interjected before both pony-riding hobbits came to blows. It was a delicate, grandiose voice, that of a theatrical being, with annunciation and a voice for the stage, or, perhaps, for the birds, depending on how long one was forced to hear it. The voice said: “Maybe both of you should show a little tact and settle down before some ill-mannered tussock burgeons between you. We’re on a mission, remember.” Not missing a beat, Gromwell echoed the last line, smirking moronically. “Yeah, we’re on a mission.”

The source of the voice was Fescue Bracegirdle, a flowery, overblown Hobbit, stuffed into his clothes as if he were being worn by them, rather than them by him. He had a black-haired head, and a face that was heroic and debonair at first, and later became stifled, conservative, and ridiculous to look at. One had to admit, though, his face, and his overly regal attitude was much more tolerable that Spurge’s oafish thug persona, and Gromwell’s intolerably wormy nature. Fescue was the self-styled leader of the trio, even though he was also higher up on the scale of intelligence, and of many other things. Neither Gromwell nor Spurge cared about this, though. They were content to be in the business they were in, which was a busy business, certainly. The trio was all in the government business, or so they claimed. Really, they merely worked for the barely official government of the Shire, which, in Tookland and least, consisted of the Thain and his men. Thain’s men did not have the same power that local Shirriffs and Postmasters had, and had comparatively less, but they still had some minor duties. Most of those duties were the same, delivering the Thain’s messages on whims to the Shirriffs, who then delivered messages to the local populace. Fescue thought that his position was greater than this, but such a rank was above his own. He was merely in charge of a personal delivery, though he considered it to be much more.

“See, Master Proudfoot?” Fescue continued, in his aloof, dated tone of voice, “Gromwell has the right idea. Perhaps you should take etiquette lessons from Master Boffin, if you ever wish to gain a position of authority…like me.” He puffed out his miniscule chest, and his mount gave a whinnying neigh that resembled a sigh of annoyance, and could easily be misconstrued as such. Spurge grumbled, muttering inaudibly to himself, though the words, “Position of authority my foot!” were clearly heard by Gromwell. He might’ve have raised the proverbial alarm on Spurge, but he was cut short by another proclamation by Fescue Boffin as the trio crested a small, grassy ridge, flanking hilly fields, and a lump of a building came into site nearby. Fescue jabbed his finger forward, striking a dashing pose and nearly falling off his ‘noble steed.’ “Ah, yes.” He said daringly, “There she is, lads; the Green Dragon Inn: our charge.”

Spurge scratched his head. “Why are we charging? Is the criminal in there?”

“No.” Fescue snapped, almost losing his well-maintained composure, “We’ve been charged with the defense of the Green Dragon, and defend it we shall, upon the mighty bulwarks of Eriadorian law. I do not doubt that the place is filled with poor, defenseless souls in need of rescue. I assure you, boys, some will panic when we tell them the horrid news, but we will yet prevail. For we, my comrades in arms, are in the service of the Thain, and shall not shirk our duties, may they be physical, clerical, or lackadaisical.” With a powerful gesture, he goaded his steed on, and Gromwell followed up the oratory with a loud and triumphant, “Indeed!” He looked down on the Green Dragon Inn, aiming his beady eyes at the small stable that adorned it.

The three had soon clip-clopped their merry way to the stable, which was, to their mild surprise (and Spurge’s dismay) without a stable master. Fescue, Gromwell, and Spurge managed to wade through some high layers of hay and deposit their ponies in some unoccupied stalls, some of the few that were unfilled. One horse, though, was giving them a very hard time, braying and neighing and making an assortment if loud noises that grated on Spurge’s easily grated nerves. Of course, when he turned to see the animal that had made him so irate, he forgot his annoyance in light of the awesome nature of the creature. It was a noble and mighty animal, not like anything found in the Shire. It seemed almost undomesticated, wild and free, though it was compliant with the terms of its stall.

“Tha’s a mighty fine penny!” remarked Spurge,

“It’s 'pony',” commented Gromwell, as he gave his own pony a firm pat on the haunch that caused the beast to make a glancing kick at him with its front leg, though it missed utterly, “and that’s not a pony. That’s a horse.” Managing to ignore the equestrian experience, Gromwell turned and picked hay disgustedly off of his uniform. Spurge glowered at him as Fescue busied himself looking at the horses, scrutinizing them for some unknown, but no doubt very important, reason. “Well, how’m I supposed to know the difference?” Spurge Proudfoot shot back menacingly, shooting a sharp look at his rival. “You’re not,” Gromwell nimbly replies, “‘cuz you’ve got a head as thick as unchurned butter!” At last Fescue turned and placed his outstretched hands between the two as they stared each other down. “Now, now, lads,” he said coolly, though still overblown in his speech, “we ought not to be quarrelling over such petty matters, yes? Remember, we’ve been-”

“Yeah, charged.” Spurge interrupted him, sulking, “I got it.”

“I’ll bet.” Gromwell snapped.

Fescue ignored them both, musing and scratching his carved chin. “Mayhaps,” he philosophized to himself, “the chief ostler is not in at the moment.” Gromwell nodded dutifully, like any canine ought to (and the situation would’ve been vastly improved if he was a canine). “Mayhaps.” He said, acting in his customary fashion, as the precise and accurate echo of Fescue Bracegirdle. Fescue gave him a friendly look, the kind of look that master gives a dog, saying ‘for that, you get a bone later,’ and then said, in his heroic manner, that had already become annoying to the very air around him, and the horses, “Then let us proceed within.” And as they al left, he did not bother to note that many of the steeds let out neighs of relief.

So they entered, and found no one to accommodate them. The place was bustling with mid-morning activity, that of hobbits and men alike, who all cluttered the floors and tables. There was no person who seemed to stand out – to them – as innkeeper, or proprietor, or a person of some powerful position. With Fescue in the lead, the trio sauntered through the Common Room, very much expecting everyone to move out of their way, but no one did. Annoyed, they worked their way forward, searching for someone with authority. They found no one who had any, that they knew of, but they did manage to locate a fellow who looked as if he did. They did not know, at the time, that his name was Snaveling, so they did not call him that – or, Fescue did not, the other two did not like the Big Folk, and felt likewise about speaking to them. So, Fescue Bracegirdle addressed the well-clothed, nobly groomed, and kingly fellow called Snaveling.

“Fine sir.” He said, tapping the man on the shoulder as he sat, reclusively, despite his crowded surroundings, in a small chair, “You seem to be very…gargantuan…in stature and in gait. Perhaps you, a man of such noble girth and eminence, might be able to direct us to the proprietor of the most indomitable establishment?"

[Gird]

A large man clumped up the steps of the Green Dragon with loud thumps of his fine leather boots. He walked with a sense of almost king-like dignity as he entered the establishment. His clothes were well kept and of a fine quality. A scarlet-purple cape was draped down his back. The fair face of the man was underneath a styled head of hair. The man's deep blue eyes had a sense of noble purpose- but also deep down (though none could see it) a sense of mischief. And it was a mischievous and devilish deed that this man had come to act forth. It was to be his folly that he had entered the inn just moments after three agents of the Shire's Thain had also entered the inn.

With a swift and powerful leap, the man had jumped up onto the counter of the bar(knocking over several hobbits' drinks). He called aloud, above the noise of the crowd. "Dwellers of th' Green Dragon Inn! Do not be alarmed. I am hereby taking over the position of leadership in this place, as of now." With a sense of triumph the man looked around the room. The common room was silent and all he could see were faces covered in shock, disgust and anger. He continued, starting to pace along the counter, "This will mark the beginning of my mighty empire that will stretch all across Middle Earth and I shall reign supreme for a thousand yeeaa.."

The man was now falling. Evidently he had slipped on some of the spilled liquor as he paced the counter. Now, from such a self-righteous position he was falling to the dirty, hobbit and traveller trodden, floorboards.

After a couple seconds of blackness, the man awoke to sounds of excited chatter, some laughter and the faces of 'The Thain's Three', peering down at him.

[Maeggaladiel]

"Perhaps," added Eleniel, "but you have company now, Soronume." She smiled and took a drink of her ale, absently tossing Arrow another piece of bread. It was gone with a single snap of his silver and ivory jaws. He licked his lips and stared hungrily up at her, as though he hadn't eaten in years.

"Did you say you've traveled to Cirith Ungol?" Eleniel continued. "You must be very adventurous indeed! What caused you to go to that dismal place?"

Arrow started to whine. He stared up at Eleniel with large brown eyes, giving her the patented "Sad Puppy Look."

"ALL RIGHT." she said forcefully. "Here. Happy now?" She ordered a plate of bacon and set it on the floor. Arrow wagged his tail. Yes, he was quite happy now.

She nibbled on a piece of her own breakfast and took another drink. It seemed as though the dust from the road had been building up in her throat. Soon she'd have accumulated a fine sized desert where her tongue should be. The ale helped a great deal.

"I've never been to Cirith Ungol," she said, turning back to Soronume. "although my adventures have taken me close to the land of Mordor. What was it like?"


She turned briefly at the sound of the well-dressed incomer. He doesn't look like much of a traveller, she thought. He looks more like a bored nobleman.

"Dwellers of the Green Dragon Inn," she heard him bellow. "Do not be alarmed. I am taking over the position of leadership as of now."

Eleniel was far from alarmed. She rolled her eyes wearily and cast Soronume a wry smile.

"Somehow I doubt Lady Aman will surrender her position." she said. She watched as the man slipped on a puddle of spilled ale and landed on the floor. She gave a snort.

"Whatever is the world coming to?"

Arrow seemed to find this newcomer most amusing. Wagging his tail, he abandoned his licked-clean plate and sniffed at the man's face, licking his nose.

"Arrow," Eleniel called sharply. "Leave the amature inn hijacker alone."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling was shaken out of his reverie by the oddest trio of hobbits he had ever beheld. For a moment, he could have sworn that he was looking at the younger cousin, or perhaps even the brother of Tobias, for the Halfling who addressed him had the same overblown sense of grandiosity that was so charming in his friend. One moment’s inspection, however, dispelled this notion, for nowhere in this countenance as there evident the good hearted roguery of Tobias Hornblower. Instead, Snaveling detected the officious sanctimony of a minor official with an inflated sense of his own purpose. Snaveling could not help but smile at the trio, who gave in return only stern looks. “I am not,” Snaveling began, in his best court manner, “in the habit of giving out information about my friends to total strangers. Might I ask who you are, and why it is that you seek the Innkeeper?”

For a second, the lead Halfling looked like a kettle that had been left to boil dry, so furiously did his chest puff out. A thick thumb planted itself in the middle of his out-thrust shirt and the little fellow chuffed out, “Mister Fescue Bracegirdle.” His thumb then moved to point over his shoulder and he said again, as though he were listing off produce in a shopping bag, “Masters Spurge Proudfoot,” his thumb moved to his other shoulder “and Grumwell Boffin.” He returned his thumb to his pocket and, planting his feet apart, began in what Snaveling felt must be his best official manner. “We are here on Thain’s business, sir, and not to be rude, but if you aren’t in the business of discussing your friends with strangers, I’m not about to speak of my mission to an outsider, begging your pardon and no offense intended.”

“None taken.” Now Snaveling had a very difficult moment repressing his smile. To cover the effort he straightened in his chair and spoke in the manner that he had learned from watching his King with foreign emissaries. “My name, though you have not asked it, is Tar-Corondil, although I am known to the people of these parts as Snaveling. To answer your question, the Innkeeper is…”

At that moment a loud voice from the far side of the room announced that it belonged to the new ruler of the Inn. Even as Snaveling was attempting to digest this odd notion, the owner of the voice fell to the floor. Snaveling rose to his feet, not to help but the better to watch this comic moment unfold. His eye caught sight of Tobias sitting alone in a dark corner, and in a flash he knew that the arrival of Fescue and company had something to do with his friend. Eager to distract their attention, Snaveling pointed to the man on the floor and said to Fescue, “Why the Innkeeper has saved me the trouble of pointing him out! There he is upon the floor. You must forgive his outburst, it happens when he’s partaken of too much ale.”