The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Sett]

Galither spent many the hour slumped on his horse as he trot around the shire in agony. He was holding onto the horse hard clutching it in his arms width as it slowly carried him up and down the hills. Aching from the bitter weather hitting him like sheaves of glass. Each raindrop falling from the unforgiving sky in a violent fashion as it whisks down fast. Constricting his lungs were becoming unbearable for Galither as he tried to escape his jaded state of mind among the muddy paths that dragged the horse down causing Galither to feel unwary and confused as to what had happened.

Moments later he saw the green dragon inn over the hillside and used his last grain of strength to pull the horse into galloping towards the inn but it too was fatigued and not available to such commands. The horse fell to its knees as it skids down the now muddy path leading towards the safe haven from the malevolent weather.

He made it to the courtyard when both him and horse fell to the ground.
Galither was now dreaming of his love Esmerelda. He could see her radiant beauty gushing in the flower filled meadows with the light of the heavens shining down on his soul. He felt her touch on his heart as she knelt by him under the ever-growing purity of the sun. She was so elegant as she lied next to him with a gentle smile of great happiness. He closed his eyes and sighed in joy.

He opened his eyes again but did not find any white horses or golden angels but the stable master at his side as Galither lied in the thick puddle drowning. He was too stressed out at this point to realise what was going on around him. He felt his body being dragged along the hard floor but it felt relaxing for some strange reason perhaps this was because he was out of the weather. He was now full unaware of anything going on around him until he woken up in the pre-booked room the men rented out a while ago. There was a women standing in the corner with hot soup for him but he was too blind of sight to make out any features. He fell back down in frustration that there was nothing he could do. He tried to feel his chest, which had a bandage over it, but he did not know how it got there so for now discarded it so that he could again be with his love Esmerelda.

[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, General handyman/jack-of-all-trades round the Inn (played by Envinyatar)

Zimzi (Zimziran), wife to Derufin; a skilled potter from Lindon(played by Pio)

Meriadoc - Stablemaster

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

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.

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EVERYONE

Please be familiar with The Red Book of Westmarch which gives the rules for posting in the Shire RPG's and in The Green Dragon Inn.

Thanks!

Piosenniel, Shire Moderator

[piosenniel]

TIME IN THE SHIRE

It is now just a little after noon.

The sky remains quite grey but the rain is starting to lessen a little . . .

Lunch is still being served: Thick, savory bean with ham soup; baskets of fresh baked bread, thick sliced. Platters of cheese to pile on the bread with mustard and pickles.

A hearty lunch for a cold day . . . and all washed down with ale, cider, tea, or water.

And for dessert - hot apple crisp with a flaky pastry crust.

[Noinkling]

Benat had many questions stirring in his mind. He shifted in his chair as if trying to move what was most important to the fore. He simply had not thought that he would not find Mr. Baggins when he came to the Shire. His Granda had told him many wonderful stories of the small fellow, a main theme of each being that though the Hobbit was game for an adventure, still his heart seemed to lie in the home he’d come from. The Shire. He’d really hoped to find Bilbo and ask him whatever happened when he and the Dwarves left the safety of the Carrock and ventured into the Dark Wood and then on to the Lonely Mountain. And had there been any more adventures after that one, he wondered?

He came out of his reverie and excused himself for his rudeness. ‘Please,’ he said standing up a bit and waving his hand toward the empty chair at his table. ‘Do sit down with me for a while. I do have many questions I would ask of you. I just don’t know where to begin them.’

Ginger had fetched a pitcher of ale by this time, and a small mug for Cook and now poured each of them a foaming drink. She’d also managed a rather large ham bone from the kitchen and gave it to Cullen, who thumped his tail heartily at the gift.

Raising his mug to Cook, Benat took a healthy swallow, then began his story, starting with the arrival of the wizard, the Hobbit, and the Dwarves to his Granda’s house in mid-summer many years ago. He backed the story up just a bit before going on, saying that this strange group of travelers had just escaped being trapped by wolves in a most amazing way – the eagles had come to their rescue. It was after this that they had fled to the Carrock and the safety of his Granda’s house. They had stayed barely a day, long enough for his Granda to hear of their adventures to that point and the proposed journey to be undertaken. Then off they’d gone, on horses leant them – east to the Dark Forest and beyond. It had pleased his Granda no end that Mister Bilbo had been such an appreciative dinner guest. And noting that the Hobbit quite enjoyed the fresh bread spread thick with his Granda’s bees own honey, the old man had always meant to send Mister Baggins a pot or two to remind him of their meeting.

‘And well, here, now, I am. Bringing the honey from my Granda’s bee hives. He got too old to do it himself, and besides, we rarely travel beyond the borders of our own little land. And now, besides, he’s passed away, a number of years now, leaving me to find out the rest of the story.’

Benat sighed and shook his great head sorrowfully.

[piosenniel]

Cook and Benat

Cook listened quietly as the man spoke. Mister Bilbo’s adventure had come to her in dribbles and drabbles she recalled. Mostly stories from the older Hobbits, and it was difficult to separate the facts from the fiction. And to be honest, much of the ‘fact’ seemed like grand storytelling themselves. Wolves and Eagles, goblins and murderous spiders. And treasure . . . and above all, a Dragon with fiery breath, jeweled scales, and great claws and teeth and vast wings. And the ring, of course, found in the deep cave . . . the magic ring . . . the one that brought all the trouble later for Mister Frodo.

‘I won’t pretend to know the answer to your question of what happened to Mister Bilbo on his adventure. Though bits and pieces have woven themselves into the memory of the Shire, there is much of the story he never told us.’

Benat’s face, at first hopeful, now looked crestfallen once again.

‘He never told us outright, I should say. And what he did say has got all twisted up in the telling. Sorry to say many of my relatives thought kindly of the old fellow, but also figured him for an odd duck . . . what with his wanderings and all.’ She leaned forward, looking Benat in the eye. ‘You did know his nephew caught the adventuring bug. Went off with the same wizard and that ring his uncle found. And I think I heard there was a Dwarf with him, too. And one or two of the Fair Folk. A spider was in there somewhere, and the eagles. Very strange family, the Baggins . . . with respect to their travels.’ ‘But for the most part, kindly thought of,’ she pronounced.

Cook rubbed her chin in a considering manner. ‘You know,’ she said, nodding her head as the thought came to her. ‘there is someone I could introduce you to. His name is Sam . . . Samwise Gamgee. He’s our Mayor. Traveled with Mister Frodo. Now I know he has a book, that Mister Bilbo started and Mister Frodo continued. And I’m pretty sure it tells of their adventures.’ She nodded her head again. ‘You spend the night here . . . I think we can fit you into one of our large rooms . . . put two mattresses together on the floor; that oughta do it. Then tomorrow, I’ll send a note up to Mister Sam, telling him about you, and asking if I can bring you up. What do you say to that?’

[Mithalwen]

Mithalwen reflected that the seeming catastrophe was recovering itself remarkably quickly. Mr Headstrong was positively purring with pleasure at Marigold's delight in his gifts. It was evident that Marigold had suffered no major trauma and was happy in Caity's company under Falco's benevolent eye. Already more people had arrived to distract the inn staff from the incident andfro that she was grateful - though she must make a point of thanking whoever made the poultice.

She curled her long body into the next windowseat, near enough to tend Marigold swiftly if needed but far enough not to have to engaged in conversation with Mr Headstrong - who although he had calmed down, still evidently had no great opinion of her or Snaveling.

She could not blame him. She had arrived as a chance visitor barely 36 hours before and aswell as gate crashing a wedding, she had endangered the life of a hobbit child. Why had she stayed? Aeglos' shoe had been replaced, and he was rested. As for the weather - well she had journeyed in worse before and would do so again. If she were honest with herself she would have to admit, that she had become intrigued by the people she had met here. However her interest was beginning to blend with interference. She began to realise that there might be good reasons why the eldar did not mingle overmuch with mortals.

She sighed and watched a particular raindrop make its course down the pain. She rested her head against the glass and thought of her own home at Mithlond. There she would regard it as a good day to get on with her work. Maybe jsut a walk to blow the cobwebs away. Work... perhaps it mightbe worth starting some if she was not going to get on with her journey directly - not creating from new perhaps but perhaps a few repairs. She had soem money still but baling out snaveling had been an unexpected drain on her resources.

Snaveling! A thought that had been on the edge of her consciousness at the moment that Felarof had bolted, now came clearly into her mind. Felarof was as fine as just about any horse Mithalwen had seen in an age of the world. He would have been noble enough to bear an elf lord and mighty enough to carry even a man of Numenor of old. But Snaveling had made a gift of him. Snaveling whose garments combined shabby finery with borrowed robes, Snaveling who had given the impression he would have gone hungry this day had it not been for her clearing his tab. She herself did not bring all her wealth a journeying admittedly, but it seemed bizarre that a man who could not afford to eat was making such kingly gifts.

Too late, did she remember Snaveling's proximity. She closed her mind and looked up to see him studying her, as he sat in a chair a little way away. She knew he could have read her thought if he had so chosen. He was a dunadan, whether or not he chose to describe himself as thus. But how much had he read of her thought? Maybe he his glance had been prompted by her sudden movement. She sprang to her feet with the pretext of fetching a drink for Marigold. She fetched tea for herself, and forcing herself to seem natural she presented Snaveling with a cup. " Tea, Tar Corondir" , her voice was steady but she was unable to tell from his eyes how much of her mind he had discerned.

[Noinkling]

The grin on his face was so wide at Cook’s plan that it nearly split his face in two. Several of the Small Folk nearby moved further away, he noted, with looks of alarm on their faces. They were somewhat assured when he closed his mouth and nodded in a friendly manner toward Cook and them.

It was indeed his great grin that had sent a mild chill through them. His teeth were large, though not overly so for his size, and his great sharp canines seemed particularly wicked to them as they flashed in the revealing smile. One of them whispered to his companions that it reminded him of the bear head he’d seen mounted in the Common Room in Bree’s Inn. ‘The monster set upon the lambs of one of the Bree farmers near Archet. Spring it was. The snow hardly off the ground. A number of those from the surrounding farms gathered together to take care of the problem,’ he said, eyeing Benat quickly. ‘Killed a couple of them with his mighty paws,’ he went on. ‘The got the beast, though.’ He was about to make further comment when a low grumble . . . no, more of a warning growl intruded on his story. The hair on the back of the Hobbit’s neck stood up, and he eased his gaze toward the source of the sound. Benat was giving him a considering look and his large dog had come to stand by his master’s chair and was looking pointedly at the now quaking Hobbit. The little fellow excused himself with some quavering excuse that he had things to see to, as did his tablemates, who hurried out the door without looking back.

Benat turned his attention back to Cook, being careful not to grin too widely again. ‘That is a most generous offer on your part, Mistress Bunce. And I would gladly take you up on it.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I feel as if I owe you something for your kindness. Something beyond the price of a room and meals. Is there some task I can set my hand to that would help out here at the Inn?’

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Goodness me, child, what happened to your head?"

All in the small corner of the room turned around to see Aman standing behind them, her arms crossed. Sure as ever, sun had come after the rain, and the light from the window under which Marigold sat seemed to spotlight the Innkeeper, highlighting on the light, elusive golds in her hair and glinting off the horseshoe necklace which was visible due to the heart neckline of her pale blue dress. She noticed Snaveling's eyes fall on it and hover there for a brief second, squinting at the necklace, before his eyes moved up to her face. Aman remained standing still, eyebrows raised. Tapping one foot lightly on the floor, she made a small decisive sound and sighed, before she smiled with tired eyes at Snaveling and Mithalwen, wrinkling her nose a little so that the pale freckles danced. "What?" she asked slowly. "You both look like naughty schoolchildren caught in the act."

Mithalwen laughed, grinning at Aman as she rose. "Good morning, Aman - or should I say good afternoon?" she added with a wink.

"Good afternoon indeed." Ruby's voice huffed from behind them as the hobbit bustled past Aman to clear the table in front of Snaveling of it's debris. "Someone," she continued ominously, wiping the table. "Someone had a little too much to drink last night, courtesy of those no-good brothers of Zimz, I'll be bound; and consequently spent this morning sleeping off the night before..." she trailed off and set Aman with a disapproving look that would rival Cook's very own collection of choice matronly expressions. Aman raised one eyebrow and returned her gaze steadily, but she couldn't hide the tired rings around her green eyes, and eventually had to break the gaze when she stifled a yawn. Ruby looked satisfied and gave an impish, 'told-you-so' smile as she continued clearing the table. Aman glared at her then asked Mithalwen if she could join them. The elf accepted gladly and Aman made her way around the table past Snaveling to sit on the padded bench beside Marigold, under the window - as she moved past Snaveling, the back of her dress brushed his legs and a whiff of freshly washed hair caught his attention, and his curiosity. The Innkeeper wasn't prone to taking a shower or bath in the morning...

Ruby, by nature, was not quite spiteful; but the hobbit did have a certain sense of humour that rather enjoyed Aman's evident discomfort. The hobbit server was not finished yet - spinning balletically on her heel, her hands full of china and glass, she left a few parting shots: business as usual. "Several people called for you this morning, Aman - one delivering a letter, another with a message, he says, and one other who was asking if he could help about the place, although I think...I think Cook is dealing with that request..." she trailed off, looking around the crowded Common room. Aman's gaze fell on the certain individual who Ruby was looking and her eyes widened - the man was a giant! Looking alarmed, she glanced at Ruby for an explanation. The hobbit shrugged, a hopeless expression on her face. "He asked for you earlier, but then, he also asked for various other strange characters...coffee?"

Aman raised an eyebrow and grinned properly at Ruby. "Thank you for that insight, Ruby." She paused, she added, "Oh, and yes, please, coffee would be perfect. What sort of characters?"

Ruby tipped her head onto one side, thinking. "Well, he mentioned something 'bout dwarves...and the white wizard..." she clicked her fingers and beamed. "And was askin' about Mr Bilbo Baggins!"

Aman blinked. "Bilbo? Why on earth-"

Ruby shrugged unhelpfully again, the china cups clinking musically against each other as she moved away. "Who knows, Aman - like you say, all sorts..." she called over her shoulder, chuckling to herself. Aman watched her go for a moment, then shook her head and rubbed her eyes, turning back to Marigold. Concern replaced tiredness as she saw again the fresh blood on the girl's forehead, and she raised one hand to it, tipping the girl's chin with her other hand so that she could see better. "Goodness, Marigold, how did you manage that, you silly thing?"

Marigold giggled at Aman's choice of words, then answered, "I fell off your horse, Falfar...Folaro...Felfalo-"

"Felarof," Aman corrected. Although she did not turn around, she sensed Snaveling freeze up. Continuing her inspection of the little girl's head, she made a face, then continued, "Why on earth were you all the way up on Felarof, Marigold? I was under the impression both my horses were snug in their stalls..."

The hobbit girl squirmed slightly, avoiding Aman's eyes. "I...I wanted to see what it felt like. 'Cos," she rushed on quickly, wanting to justify herself. "'Cos he's such a lovely horse, so pretty, and after all, you can't keep all of these mysterious gifts to yourself..." she trailed off coyly, giggling. Aman let go of her chin and looked Marigold in the eyes, smiling - the little girl's amusement was delightful, but she was somewhat confused, to say the least.

"Mysterious gifts? Why, I don't think I've had any of those for a while..." she answered, scratching her head comically as if thinking. Marigold nodded, her curls tossing lightly, spun to gold in the light of the rain-drenched sun, and she wagged a finger at the woman in her best childish impression of a hobbit goodwife. "Nice try, young lady," she reprimanded Aman sternly, doing a startlingly good impression of Vinca. "We all know who gave you Falforo-"

"Felarof," Aman corrected automatically. She looked Marigold dead in the eyes. "And who exactly would that be?"

Marigold pursed her lips, raising her finger to them.

Aman sighed, then leant down, beckoning the little girl to whisper it into her ear. The little hobbit lass leant forward conspiratorially, her lips tickling Aman's ear, her breath warm against the Innkeeper's skin. "Your lover!" she whispered breathily.

Aman's head shot backwards, her eyes wide. "My what?"

Marigold giggled delightedly and clapped her hands in glee, then beckoned Aman back down again. The Innkeeper leant forward, now almightily confused, to hear Marigold's account of this incredible character who had now entered her life. Marigold cupped her hand to Aman's ear and continued, this time in a whisper loud enough for both Mithalwen and Snaveling to hear perfectly well. "Your lover! You have a love, but it has to be a secret; he's wildly in love with you, but sends you gifts from afar to express his devotion for you. A Gondorian ranger, deeply in love with a beautiful Rohirrim maiden..." she clasped her hands to her chest melodramatically and swooned.

The action was so overdone and comical that both Mithalwen and Aman couldn't help but burst out laughing. Snaveling, Aman noted, managed only a sort of strained smile. Aman regained her breath and tickled Marigold gently. "And the identity of my secret Gondorian? Tell me or I'll tickle you to death!"

Marigold laughed wildly as Aman's fingers wiggled their way around her stomach, batting against the Innkeeper's grasp as she squirmed. Mithalwen joined in and all three of them were soon laughing, before Marigold finally elicited her answer.

"Snaveling!"

Aman's tickling faltered and stopped abruptly as she stared at Marigold, her laughter halting. "Sn...Snaveling?" she stammered.

Marigold nodded, swinging her feet childishly on the seat. "Yup yup yup! I know it's him, 'cos he told us it was!"

"Aman-" Snaveling began, as Aman turned to him in confusion and outrage.

"Your Gondorian lover! Tar-Coriander!" Marigold crowed delightedly.

No-one corrected the little girl this time, and there was an awkward pause as Aman stared at Snaveling in confusion and hurt, and the silence that reigned was really anything but golden: it was a murky and dark shade of confusion, splattered with patches of scarlet-shivering hurt. None of the three adults spoke for a moment, before Snaveling began.

"Aman, I didn't tell her-"

"Coffee!" Ruby's singsong voice broke the awkwardness along with the merry clatter of china cups on the tray. Aman and Mithalwen both leapt around to face her, and Aman's face broke into a practised smile as she stood to take the tray from Ruby, thanking her profusely. Ruby winked and leant in conspiratorially, not unlike little Marigold. "Take the edge off your hangover, Miz Aman," she murmured, tapping the side of her nose with her forefinger.

Aman smiled weakly and sipped the strong coffee gratefully as Marigold began to chatter vivaciously again about Felarof and the other 'horsies', taking the edge off the awkward silence rather than Aman's supposed headache. Mithalwen glanced at her carefully, but turned her attention to distracting Marigold, chattering back to her patiently.

Snaveling's eyes didn't leave Aman's face.

[piosenniel]

Cook sets a task for Benat

‘Something you can do, eh?’ Cook took another sip of her ale and ran some chores needed doing through her mind. She wondered if the man fished or hunted, but then recalled what Ginger had said about his not eating any meats. Well, all for the best anyway. If she sent him off to the woods or the stream there were sure to be reports of a marauding giant looking to harm the good folk of the Shire. The shiriff and his men were sure to be called up and it would be an interminable time before the whole misunderstanding was unraveled. No, she should keep him on the Inn grounds . . . less apt to be trouble that way.

Her face suddenly brightened as a thought came to her. There were a number of large, downed trees near the groundskeeper’s cottage. They’d been used for the repairs on the place before Derufin and Zimzi had moved in. Perhaps Benat could see to getting them to the Inn’s back yard and he and that other fellow . . . now what was his name? - the one with the missing left boot - they could buck and split them for the stove and fireplaces.

Calling for a wee refill for the both of them, she posed her proposition to Benat . . .

[Mithalwen]

One disaster averted another created thought Mithalwen, she had forgotten in the aftermath of Marigold's escapade, that noone had corrected her misapprehension. Was now the time? "Marigold dear... I don't think you have got that quite right" she said clearly...and was then stymied. She did not feel free to say that she believed Snaveling's heart was engaged elsewhere. She looked helplessly at Snaveling. "Wht an imagination you have but I think your bump has muddled you - and you are meant to be resting not getting overexcited may be you should rest in your room"

"But.... but... " started Marigold ..

"Only goats butt, Marigold" said Mithalwen quoting an exasperated hobbit mother she had overheard yesterday at the wedding party. Then her expression softened, " You look as if you have been dragged though a hedge backwards. Lets take your new clothes up to your room and get you tidied up. You can choose something to wear, then you can come back down and show Mr Headstrong how pretty you look, ? "

She hoped she wasn't being cowardly but she felt Aman and Snaveling might prefer not to have spectators..

[samsmyhero]

Denegal had been quite overawed by the sight of Uien. For one so recently bruised by the capricious bludgeoning of love, he looked every bit ready to fall head over heels once more. He was barely able to stammer his way through a brief explanantion of his slippers, hoping in the dim light of the stables that the blush he felt suffusing his face was not readily apparent. Barely taking in the fact that Falowik and Uien themselves were offering to make new boots for him, he awkwardly turned, ramming his shoulder into the hay manger, as the three proceeded back to the inn.

Upon entering the common room, Falowik went in search of one of the servers, to settle his bill. Denegal stood uncomfortably at the elf's side, tongue tied and not knowing what to say. Sensing his discomfort, Uien gestured to an empty table nearby. "Why don't we sit at ease while we wait for Falowik? I'm sure he won't be long.”

Denegal slid gratefully onto the bench, and cleared his throat nervously as Uien sat beside him. “I’m sorry, . . . but, I’ve never spoken to an elf before. Actually, I’ve never even seen an elf before, that is, besides the queen, and then only from far off. I mean, it’s not as if I’d have spoken to her or anything . . . “ His voice trailed off. “What I mean,” he tried again,” is, what do I, er, call you?” Risking a quick glance at her face, he saw the various contortions one usually makes when trying not to laugh. Dismayed at his total inability to speak sensibly, Denegal returned his eyes to the table top and stared woodenly at a knothole in the surface.

“Please, friend, call me Uien, for that is my name.” The beautiful elf placed one of her slender, elegant hands on his arm, and immediately, a warmth spread out from the touch, calming the young man and quieting his nerves. Denegal immediately felt at ease with his new companion and finally found his tongue.

“Uien, then. I want to thank you and Falowik for your generous offer.” He reflected that probably not many men went shod in boots made by elven kind.” I hope I’ll be able to repay you somehow. You asked for a tale of Gondor, but any story I might be able to tell would surely be poor recompense for any favor. I’m afraid I myself have no skill in the weaving of a good yarn, although I do know a funny joke or two.” Here he paused, it suddenly occurring to him that said jokes were probably not of the sort to tell to a woman of any race. “ But I’m sure they would bore you.” He hurried on. “And of my own life, there’s little enough to tell; it’s been a quiet one for the most part.” Denegal recalled his earlier jest with Falowik, that he and Galither should recount their tales of love and allow Uien to judge whose was better. But now, in her presence, he felt a great reluctance to tell a tale that would surely paint him a fool.

Falowik returned to the table and sat down. “Well, that’s taken care of! Now, shall we have our payment first, or find some leather and get to work?” He looked inquiringly at Uien.

[Tevildo]

She was a slim, rag-tag of a hobbit girl who looked more like a boy. Camille wore crumpled brown breeches and a tattered shirt that had two buttons missing from the bottom. The pants were several inches too short, but they were the only ones she had. Her thick mop of brown curls was also cropped quite short, which made her look even more like a lad. She had slipped in through the back entrance of the Inn at a moment when Cook and the other kitchen helpers had run out to see what had happened to Marigold. She scampered quickly through the kitchen and headed for the door that led into the Common Room.

Camille padded silently into the Common Room, observed by no one with all the hubub going on, and slid down behind the bar, crouching low and hiding. The aroma from the noonday middle still hung heavy in the air. Her stomach growled in frantic protest. She was tired and hungry, oh so hungry, but she had no pennies in her pocket to buy even a hunk of bread. Worse than that, there were two others waiting at home equally as hungry.

She could see that many guests were finishing up their lunches. Camille considered the possibility of whisking something off someone's plate when they weren't looking or perhaps going back to the kitchen to sift through the garbage bins. She was quite good at both those things. She was about to run out and try to snatch two slices of cheese that had been sitting on someone's plate when she looked over and saw the scene that centered on Marigold. The girl had evidently been hurt and everyone was crowding about her with offers of food, gifts, and greetings. What a lucky lass! Camille could not remember the last time anyone had given her anything other than a cuff on the head from a farmer who was angry when she was caught red-handed stealing eggs. Staring over and seeing the pile of dresses, her heart sank down to her toes. What she would give to own one dress, just one, that was half as lovely as the ones she was looking at now.

Camille watched mesmerized as the beautiful Elf gathered up the dresses and gently began to guide Marigold toward the stairwell, letting the lass lean on her arm for help in walking. As soon as it looked as if the hobbit would have trouble climbing the tall staircase, the Elf set down the dresses over the handrail, picked up the hobbit child in her arms, and continued walking upstairs. She was presumably planning to return in a minute and retrieve the clothing.

Slipping out from behind the bar, Camille made her way to the base of the staircase. What beautiful, beautiful clothes! Just like the ones her mother told her about that she had once worn in her younger days before things had turned so bad. Camille reached out and fingered the lovely green skirt. Almost without knowing what she was doing, Camille picked up the dress and tucked it inside her bag. She was not the kind of hobbit who normally stole things, except for food when she was desperately hungry. But she told herself the lass had so many pretty dresses, she surely wouldn't mind if one got lost. Yet somehow she knew that she had better hide the dress from her mother who might not see it quite that way.

Heaving the bag over her shoulder, she ran back into the kitchen, stopping for a moment to sift through a pile of peelings that had been left to the side of the table when someone had been interrupted in rolling out a pie. She found the remnents of two apples, both brown and shrivelled, and stuffed these inside her bag. She had to get something to bring home. Then she raced into the pantry and, surveying the shelves, found a loaf of bread that she quickly tucked under her arm.

Suddenly, without warning, she heard noises from the room outside. It must be Cook and her helpers returning to the kitchen. Camille's heart beat wildly. There was no possibility of her making an escape without being seen. For the past week, she had lied to her mother and said that she had earned the pennies and the food by doing laundry for a farmer in the neighborhood. Camille wasn't really afraid of being scolded or even cuffed. But what if they told her mother that she had stolen a dress and some food? She flattened herself against the wall and waited, hoping that no one would see her and she could slip outside later after everyone had left.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Aman felt as if Snaveling had slapped her across the face, but managed to conceal most of the pain from her face, expression numbed by the dull throbbing in her temples. Licking her lips nervously, she replied quietly, "No deeper bond between us?" Confused, she looked questioningly at Snaveling. When he did not reply, apparently not judging it to be a question, Aman stumbled on awkwardly. "No...no deeper bond. Right, I-I think I understand," she rushed on falteringly, looking away from Snaveling. She smiled uncertainly, staring at her hands as she blinked rapidly, trying to make light. “I…I understand, Snaveling. What a foolish thing for a Marigold- well, for anyone to get into their heads. A foreign admirer for me…no, he could not possibly be real, of course not – what silly ideas little hobbits get into their heads!” She laughed rather too quickly, a fluttering, almost desperate sound like a moth trying to touch the candle. “Silly ideas…” she repeated softly, her tone almost regretful this time as she looked back to her hands, examining closely as if for the first time every millimetre of her cuticles, every line of her palm – these lines, what did they mean? Fate lines, all scattering off into a million pieces, shattering. Breaking.

Snaveling was still watching her, she knew, she could feel those dark eyes on her face. Looking up, she tried to keep her breathing calm and regular as she smiled brightly at him. “I understand, Snaveling. Truly.”

“I do not think, perhaps, that you do…” He replied slowly, frowning slightly. Aman smiled gently but this time did not look up, not trusting herself to meet his eyes. She could feel tears coming and felt them betray her as surely as the man opposite her had done. Angrily, she avoided Snaveling's eye and blinked them away: twice betrayed in an instant!

Rising abruptly and ignoring the wooziness that accompanied the motion, Aman stepped around the table, heading for the kitchen without a word. Snaveling, evidently misinterpreting the act as an attempt to get away from him, caught her wrist as she turned away, holding her back. Aman whirled around, knocking the chair over as she did so, suddenly furious. Wrenching her arm from his grasp in a sudden, vicious motion, the Innkeeper glared angrily at Snaveling, the bright afternoon light from the window spotlighting her gold-tinted hair, sharp, elfin features and green eyes as of some scorned nymph of lore. Snaveling frowned, holding up his hands as if trying to calm an angry horse or dog. He was actually confused! The thought came to Aman with bitter amusement. He honestly didn't appear to know what he had done wrong!

"Aman, wait-"

"No deeper bond?" Aman hissed furiously. "What, no deeper bond when I took you in here? You come here with your fine tales of the King’s court, with riches, with, apparently ‘misleading’ gifts, but think back, if you can bear to stoop so low. When you came to the Inn so many months ago, who took you in? Who trusted you, Snaveling, what one person in this place could you name, besides yourself and your crony, T-" Common sense caused Aman to lower her voice her as she hissed, "Tobias!"

Snaveling glanced around anxiously, painfully aware of the customers who were now staring. Aman felt a stab of self-conciousness, but it was barely noticable, but whether due to the party of last night or the trials of this morning she wasn't sure. Clenching her jaw tightly, Aman forced herself to lower her voice, leaning forward and whispering angrily at the man. “There is not one who would have stood behind you and backed you, Snaveling. Not one. Except me.”

Snaveling looked like he would have said something, then, trying to maintain his composure, he motioned for Aman to sit down. When she remained unmoved, he stood slowly, raising his hands once more in a gesture that tried to be both imploring and soothing. “Aman, I understand why you are angry. But…there are other factors to take into account here and you must understand, I never made any attempt to lead you on –”

“The ranger woman, you mean!” Aman burst out, her voice a furious, whispered explosion. “She was certainly a factor, methinks – the woman who distrusted you and pulled you up in front of the King in the hopes that you would have your come-uppance, you mean! And as for not ‘leading me on’…” she spat. “You made a horse-breeder a gift of the most beautiful horse in Middle Earth, Snaveling. In what way exactly did…did you…” she trailed off, looking away and biting her lip. Closing her eyes for a second, she took a deep breath, then looked sidelong at Snaveling, this time looking simply sad rather than angry as her fury died away to leave only hurt. Without another word, the Innkeeper turned away and headed up the stairs, not waiting to see if he followed her – and she doubted he did, unless he could move even more silently than the elves. As she reached the top of the stairs, she glanced behind her and, checking that the staircase was empty, then broke into a run, her skirts whirling behind her as she made for the attic. Having climbed the ladder up to the cosy room, her expression wild as she continued to blink the tears from her vision, she headed for the window, which was slightly ajar to keep the room from becoming musty for the Inn’s more personal guests. Looking out of the window to the peaceful scene below, she pulled it further open and swung her legs out.

But fear not, for such desperate things as a swift jump were not in the mind of one so down to earth as the Innkeeper. A swift jump for the sake of a misunderstanding? Poppycock and romantic nonsense! Aman smiled slightly despite herself as the words that Cook would use sprang to mind. Standing precariously, Aman reached up for the familiar ledge that her fingers had often found in times of confusion, and, with the help of several handily premeditated footholds, she eased herself up onto the actual roof of the Inn.

Above the world she knew, the breeze was stronger, but its matronly buffeting reminded Aman of who she was, wafting her back to her senses, back to the calm, reasonable person she was – even if she did seem to be looking at that person from afar at the moment. Scrambling a few feet up the gently sloping tiles, the woman came to the chimney pot and, with a ragged sigh, rested her back against it, closing her eyes and tilting her chin up into the wind. The cool slate through the soft material of the dress had the effect on her tears of cold metal against the back of the neck of on with a nose-bleed: within a few seconds, it stopped the flow. Folding her arms across her lap, Aman opened her eyes and looked out on a scene she knew well: rolling fields stretched way into the distance, bordered to the North and South by the almost equidistant forests and, further away to the East, out of sight, was the mysterious mass of trees that made up the Old Forest. Across the idyll of green fields were paths and hedges, roads and fences, criss-crosses on the fields like to the scrawls of children’s’ games across a notepad, the most notable being the path Aman had taken from Rohan, the Greenway, which stretched for untold miles both North and South. Far North to where Zimzaran had come to take poor Derufin by storm! And South…to Rohan, where a young woman came to take the Green Dragon by storm. Aman smiled slightly to herself as she looked into the distance to the South. She could see nothing much really: grassy hills stretching prosperous and peaceful as far as the eye could see. But beyond that…beyond, she knew where home was, her first home: Rohan, the land of the horselords.

But Rohan was no longer her home: the Shire, the Shire called to her, with all its curious customers and ‘curiouser’ people! One day, Aman vowed, one day, I will ride those hobbit-ways and see all these places I have heard talk off – I shall ride all over the Shire before I am done! Maybe even further than that one day, further North where, Piosenniel said, the elves once came from... But first, travel South, West, East or North from the sleepy Inn to discover the rustic boroughs of the Peredhil, flourishing, hidden from the sight of Man. And lucky them!

The thought brought Aman out of her reverie and her brow creased slightly. Giving a long, shaky sigh, she leant back against the chimney pot and looked into the sky. The rainclouds were clearing now, shards of duck-egg blue peering hopefully from behind them, giving promise of a clearer afternoon that the turbulent, stormy morning. Closing her eyes, she dug her shoulderblades into the hard slate fruitlessly and settled there.

“I thought I would find you here.”

Aman almost smiled at Snaveling’s familiar words, the words he had spoken when he had discovered her secret hiding place before. Cook and the hobbits would from floor to ceiling and in every cupboard and cranny in between to find Aman at times, but rarely did any ever think to look up. Her smile soon took on a sad edge though, and faded from her face as if a shadow had fallen over its sun.

“Roa,” she murmured quietly. “It is her that you love. You never loved me.”

There was a pause from Snaveling, and Aman did not have to open her eyes to know his discomfort, both with the statement and with his precarious perch – she had found before that the Black Numenorian was none too comfortable with Aman’s eyrie. “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I love Roa. I…I care for you Aman. But you must be able to understand…”

“I see your point of view, Snaveling,” Aman replied sharply, looking up and fixing him with sky-dazzled eyes. “Asking for understanding is a little much, but yes, I can see your point of view.”

Snaveling did not reply, resorting to his habitual silence. Aman sighed and reached forward, holding out a hand to pull him forwards so that he would not have to cling on quite so tight to the slates so as not to fall off. He looked at her hand for a second, surprised, and Aman nearly withdrew it, biting back the bitter urge to snap that she wouldn’t bite. But after a moments shock, Snaveling accepted her peace offering and she pulled him up to settle on the flat area of the roof on which the chimney’s perched. Settling himself but still looking uncomfortable, Snaveling followed Aman’s gaze into the distance as she drew it to the South. They sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the Inn below them and birds and the rustling of trees around them, soft, gentle noises that filled the breeze and calmed the Innkeeper’s thoughts. Nodding into the distance at some invisible goal, Aman said softly, “It is where we come from, Snaveling, both you and I. Rohan lies that way and so does Gondor – your goal, I think.”

Snaveling nodded silently, his elbows rested casually on his drawn up knees as he looked sidelong at Aman with those dark, enigmatic eyes. “It is where I have to go.”

“I know,” Aman replied simply. Tearing her eyes away, she looked at Snaveling and chanced a somewhat rueful smile, brushing one hand through her wind-strewn hair. “It is where you were always meant to go. I’m just…I’m just glad you decided to stop by on the way.” She grinned and Snaveling, after a seconds hesitation, returned the expression. Aman sighed quietly, glad of the peaceful surroundings – it was here that she felt at peace. Her eyrie. But one thing bothered her still: she understood that Snaveling could only feel the way he did, and that his heart lay elsewhere, in the South with the rangers, but a piece of the puzzle seemed to be missing. Figuring that she could hardly waste time on worrying about causing offence after her scene in the Inn, Aman came straight out with her query, fixing Snaveling once more with her bright green-eyed gaze. “Snaveling, I must ask – you love Roa and had wealth and a place in the court of Elessar. Why, then, did you leave? And why the sudden poverty? You came to the Inn a rich man this time…”

[Witch_Queen]

Jon sat in the corner all by himself. As his eyes scanned the room until he saw a sight he had not seen in a long time. The white crow of his dreams was for once actually real. Taking a closer looked Jon saw that with the crow was a dwarf. "Hmmm." Jon felt as if someone or something was looking at him. The look on the dwarf's face was one of dislike. Jon knew not why the look pleased him but he figured it was the fact that the dwarf must know the crow. Jon's shoulder length brown hair fell out of the hood.

Jon felt an undying darkness inside his heart and new that it only increased while the crow was around. Jon decided it was time to confront his dreams. The only thing was that instead of the crow being with an elf maiden it was with this mountain dweller. This isn't the crow I have seen something seems different. A smile came across Jon's face. Though the man wished to keep his identity a secret he knew it wasn't going to be long before someone figured out who he was. The hood of his cloak would keep the secret until someone removed it. Jon seemed deep inthought when he didn't notice that someone had spilled their mug of ale. Suddenly coming back to reality, Jon decided not to be a loner. Perhaps he should find someone to talk to.

Jon stood up, the bottom of his cloak swept the floor of the inn. The dwarf seemed like an interesting person to talk to. Even though he despised the look of dwarves, Jon felt like something about this dwarf was different. Walking over to the table occupied by the dwarf and crow Jon was trying to think of what to say to him exactly.

"Excuse me... Your crow is by far the rarest I've seen. I'm.... Jon. My last name means nothing to anyone....." Jon knew this was a rough way to start out a conversation.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

At first, Dwaline did not stir. He finished off his soup and then peered up at John. He smirked and sat up.

"She is not my Crow," he said, "She is her own." Avalon seemed to agree and hopped up onto Dwaline's shoulder, then fluttered over to the window and looked out of it. "Now, come to it. What business do you have with Crows?" Dwaline took another piece of Cram and broke it before popping a couple of crumbs into his mouth.

"There are few enough who study Crows or Birds of any sort," he eyes John suspiciously, but before John could say anything, Dwaline raised a hand and carried on, "Please, let me finish. How do I know you mean no harm to me or Avalon." he nodded towards the Crow, "She has had enough hurt in her life. So, out with it, I, or we, have a right to know if you mean us harm. Why do you bear a Sword? Is it to catch Dragons?" He laughed and pushed his chair back.

A Hobbit waitress came by and swiftly took the plates and bowls away from Dwaline's table and hopped along back to the kitchen. Avalon fluttered back to the table and cocked her head at John, and then she seemed to shrug and asked Dwaline how long he would take.

"I do not know," said Dwaline, "It may be some time, you do not have to stay on my account. You are a free Crow, go wither you will." She said something to him that John could not comprehend, and then she hopped out of a window and was gone.

[Witch_Queen]

Jon looked at the dwarf. "Me.. hurt anyone. I don't see how I could hurt a soul. That is unless they hurt me first. As for my sword.." Jon placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. "This old thing is just for protection. Avalon.. that be her name? Well Avalon is a beautiful creature. The idea of flying is remarkable and strikes interest in my mind." Jon knew that he had to lie in order to save himself.

Jon didn't know what else the dwarf wanted to hear. What more lies would he have to tell in order to cover up the fact that he wasn't who he claimed to be.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Dwaline eyed John suspiciously, he stroked his long yet withered beard and then leaned forward. He placed both hands on the table and took a deep breath.

"Now listen here you," he snapped, "I know you're type. I've seen many like you. they try to appear friend and then jump upon you at unawares. What's you’re game?" John did not speak, but held the Dwarf's gaze for a good long wile before turning away. Dwaline glanced over to the window where Avalon had just hopped back in. She fluttered over to the tables and peered suspiciously at John and Dwaline, she detected some tension.

"I may be an old Dwarf, set in my ways, but I always like to be straight with people, and I expect them to be the same. If you have some dark agenda, then be off with you. I can still weald my axe with strength. Now tell us, what do you want with Avalon. I don't want anyone going hurting her again; she's had a hard enough life as it is.

"You don't mean any harm? Such words came even from the mouths of the Nazgúl, how could I trust you." Dwaline was getting carried away with himself and did not realise how scared Avalon was becoming of his sudden wroth. He was never a friend of men, and stayed out of their business, but always new he could often get news from them with cunning words.

Dwaline exhaled heavily and calmed down. He darted his eyes straight at John.

"I am sorry young man," he began, "I got a little wrathful there. It is not like me, but you understand, a traveller needs to have his wits about him. I've come to know many who have had ulterior motive and dark intents. Now, sir, I hope you'll forgive me, but I just don't believe what you are saying. I saw the way you looked at Avalon. Regret, fear, foreboding? One or all of those was in your face. Now tell me, if you will."

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger examines the 'gift' from Cullen

Everyone had stopped what they were doing at the child’s squeal. Several of the servers’ eyes went wide at the sight of the rather large dog carrying what appeared to be a disheveled Hobbit boy. Ginger went right up to the dog, who sat as she approached him. Cullen had dropped the little Hobbit at her feet, and sat looking happily at her, his tail swishing back and forth on the kitchen floor.

‘Well, now what’s this?’ Ginger said, crouching down to see better the rag tag bundle the dog had dropped near her. Cullen leaned down and nudged the child with his wet black nose toward Ginger. She stood the child up and turned him round about so that he faced her. He was pale beneath his layer of grime, possibly with fright and was determinedly holding onto his bag.

Buttercup bent down and brushed the tangled curls back from the child’s face. ‘What’s your name, laddie?’ she asked with an encouraging smile

[Tevildo]

For one fleeting moment, Camille thought of replying that her name was 'Ferumbras Took" or something equally ridiculous. But she had a feeling no one would believe her.

Moreover, Camille knew she was in terrible trouble. For the past two years, she had tried to get honest work in the fields but except for harvest time when all hands were needed no one wanted to hire a young lass when they could get older, stronger helpers. She had been reduced to scrounging through trash piles and slipping an occasional apple off of peddlers' carts in order to help feed her brother and Ma. She couldn't say she was proud of that behavior but neither was she ashamed. As long as her mother didn't know and she could coax a tiny smile out of her brother, she would put up with the rest. Yet somehow this dress made things different. She had never taken anything like it before. Camille wished she had never touched the dress, and not only because the big dog had caught her hiding in the pantry. She felt ashamed and sad and a little scared. It wasn't right to steal another girl's frock just because she had none.

Camille vowed to take her punishment bravely. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Someone had told her that prisoners in jail get fed an honest meal. But at the same time, Camille was determined not to let the Inn folk know that her mother and ailing brother were camped out in one of the deserted burrows that fringed the edge of Bywater Pond. Her family had been there nearly six months. They had nailed up boards and fixed the door so the dirty old hole was at least warm and dry when the weather turned cold or rainy. Her Ma came up every night to paw through the peelings and leftovers at the Dragon that got shoved outside into the compost pile. She didn't want them to lose all that.

Relaxing her grip on the bag, she pushed it into the arms of the nearest hobbit lady and explained, "'Scuse me ma'am. I'm a lass, not a laddie, and my name is Camille....Camille Hedgeburrow, to be precise. You'd best get the shiriff here quick. I've done something real awful, something I wish I hadn't done." The lass pointed a dirty finger in the direction of the bulging bag.

[Nurumaiel]

"Well, now!" said Falco, folding his arms and surveying the little thief sternly. He had noticed her steal the dress, and had only refrained from making a scene because he didn't want Marigold to realise so soon that one of her dresses was gone. Now he stood in the kitchen door, gazing at this young Camille, and shaking his head.

"I don't know what else she has in that bag, Miss Ginger, Miss Buttercup," he said, "but I know that for one thing she has one of Marigold's dresses." He strode forward and stood over the girl, and looked very gravely into her face. "I, my young lassie, am the one who bought those dresses."

"You'd best get the shiriff," she said again, dropping her head to avoid his stern gaze.

He looked her up and down, and saw how thin and ragged-looking she was. He had no patience for hobbit thieves, and neither for Big Folk fellow thieves, and he didn't mind scolding a hobbit boy, caught while snatching an apple from the marketplace. But for the hobbit boy thieves, he always showed more kindness, for they were such young little things. And with a hobbit girl thief... his face became more kindly, and his tone less gruff, as he bent down to speak to her.

"Now, I don't think it's necessary to call the shiriff," he said. "You've returned the dress, and whatever else you stole, and I fancy you're a little too young to be taken in by the shiriff. Miss Buttercup, may I have the bag?" She passed it to him, and he opened it, and brought out the dress. It was one of the prettiest dresses, and one that would have looked splendid on Marigold with its rich blue colour. "Well, now, my young lassie," he said, glancing from Camille to the dress, "I don't see why I shouldn't let you have this dress after all. Marigold will be unhappy, no doubt, but she's a kind-hearted girl, and she'll feel a little better about it when she hears about you. But I'll only let you have it, mind, if you come get a bite to eat and tell me what you're doing here."

He glanced towards Buttercup and Ginger, and though they made no open move to stop him, he held up his hands and said: "Ah, now wait, before you try to say I shouldn't. I'm a well-to-do hobbit, and have more than enough money to spare buying a poor hungry wee lass a meal. I've always had a softness for little girls. When I was just a mite myself, only about five or six years of age, my mother told me I must always be gallant and protect and watch after the ladies. So I spent many hours of my days making things easier for the wee lassies of three or four, and taking care of the older girls as I got older. Whenever in a situation like this I always hear my mother telling me to watch out for the little girls." He smiled fondly at the memory. "I hope, misses, that you have no objections to what I propose? I think a good, hearty meal would do her much more good than a gruff old shiriff."

[littlemanpoet]

“Well, that is taken care of! Now, shall we have our payment first, or find some leather and get to work?” Falowik looked inquiringly at Uien.

"Let us go see what Bywater's tanner will part with," she replied, "unless you are afraid of melting in the rain?" She eyed Denegal playfully.

"Not I!" Denegal cried. They rose from their table and made their way out of the Common room. Uien knew more of Denegal than the man wished to tell, though she had no desire to; so it was with the art. Most of all she wished to put the man at his ease, certainly for Falowik's sake, who had few enough friends, but this Gondorian was a kind hearted enough fellow, and his company might lighten the days.

The tanner was a hard bargainer and they parted with a little more coin than they had intended, but the crafty hobbit could see the poor Gondorian's straits, and insisted his ware was of the best quality, and hard to come by in these days of long-lived cattle and horses, thanks to that strange garden seed Mayor Samwise Gamgee had brought back with him from his wild adventures, not that Mayor Gamgee was a bad sort hisself, as far as that went, but strange doings was strange doings, no matter how level your head or flat your hairy feet.

Uien listened to the tough hided tanner with pleasure, Falowik achafing, and Denegal agape at all the tanner's provincial talk. Finally they had their leather and set to work on a pair of boots for Denegal, getting permission from the Inn's ostler for the use of a horse stall for their labor.

[Sett]

Galither woke up again only an hour after he had his meal. The man was now sitting up and staring out of the window. The weather was still bitter and withered. Alas he thought to himself the day is only half way through and however eventful it had been so far he was not intending on dwelling in his room any longer. He pulled himself up and the tall yet lean man stood up straight and stretched his arms. He touched the frail oak ceiling; it was hard but incredibly smooth. As he rubbed his hand along the ceiling it felt so gentle.

He reached the door and with the strength he had gained in his sleep allowed such movement afoot. He gasped the handle and turned it but held back before pulling it back as he was hesitant on going back into the public domain. He plucked up enough courage and the door swung open very swiftly.

As he moved out into the hallway he saw a few hobbits going downstairs and some were going back to their rooms. Much action was taking place in such a small area. He walked down the stairs occasionally having to let maids going up until reaching the bottom where he proceeded into the inn.

He was now in need of a strong ale to give him the vigour needed to take on the rest of the day. He also was now very curious as to the whereabouts of his kinsmen but that was too heavy a burden on his heart that only images of sweet Esmerelda deemed fit to contemplate.

Upon reaching the bar he ordered ale and sat on the bar slumped down, sipping it slowly and with peace.

[Noinkling]

At the squeal from the kitchen, both Benat and Cook looked toward the closed doors, concern on their faces. As a reflex, Benat looked down where Cullen had lain so quietly, or so he thought. The dog was no longer there, nor was he anywhere in sight as Benat scanned the room.

‘Bear and bee! Now where’s he got off to?’ Benat’s eyes were drawn back to the kitchen’s doors and he had a growing dread that somehow Cullen and the squeal were connected. ‘Begging your pardon, m’am,’ he said to Cook but I think I should check on the whereabouts of my dog. I fear he’s gone in there and scared someone.’

He stood, dwarfing Cook as he did so, and turned to make his way to the kitchen.

[Noinkling]

Benat listened with great curiosity as Anyopâ spoke. Precious metals . . . and jewels . . . I wonder if the men of Lond Daer trade with the Dwarves . . . and if they do, where do they go . . . to the Misty Mountains . . . he wondered, beetling his brow. Or were there still Dwarves who dwelt in those mountains far to the west . . . the Blue Mountains . . . yes, that was what they were named.

Cullen stirred at the Beorning’s feet, and Benat put down a hand to scratch his ears and quiet him. Reaching for his mug, he found it empty. Zimzi smiled across the table at him and filled his mug from the pitcher near her. She fell back then to talking with Anyopâ.

The Blue Mountains were not a far distance from the Shire, or so he had heard from the various travelers he had met on his way to Bywater. Often as he could, he would ask about what lay beyond wherever he had camped or stayed for the night. And some were more than willing, for a hot meal and drink, to tell him of places far off they had seen. Benat narrowed his eyes over his mug as he drank and wondered about this new tablemate.

Was he on a buying trip now? he wondered. And if so, would he mind a companion to travel with him . . .

Benat’s eye caught sight of one of the drawings that Derufin was looking at. A pretty little thing . . . a pin . . . gold, in the shape of a bee . . . and set with some many faceted gems for the eyes . . . He has some skill in his hands, this Anyopâ . . .

‘Tell me,’ he spoke aloud, his great voice rumbling into the conversation. The others look up at him expectantly. ‘Do you have any of your finished work with you, Master Anyopâ? And might we see it?’

Others about the table nodded their heads at his request . . .

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling sat in the shadows and watched Aman speaking with the new arrival. He had spent the day by himself pondering the words that he and she had exchanged, going over and over them in his mind. At first, he had been oddly relieved by their conversation as it had finally put the girl to rights as to their relationship, but as the hours had worn on he had become more and more…anxious, was the only word that he could summon. He sat at his table and sipped a slow glass of wine as he worked through their last encounter yet again. As the scene replayed itself this time, however, he paid no attention to the words she had spoken, but focused instead upon something that she had done with her hands, a peculiar manner of holding them in her lap… It was something he had seen her do a number of times before…but had he? That was, he realised, the real sense of his anxiety, for he could not consciously remember seeing the Innkeeper hold her hands in that familiar way, nor – now that he thought of it – tilt her head in that comfortable fashion. The more he thought of it, the more he realised that there had always been something about her that was comfortable, even, almost, recognisable, like the barely heard murmur of an old tune from one’s childhood.

He took another tentative sip of his wine. Mithalwen, whom he had not seen all day, had returned to the Common Room and though he longed to speak with her she was with a large group of folk he did not know, and he little felt ready to the task of introducing himself. His mind drifted once more, back to the rooftop and to the evasive answers he had given his friend about his lack of funds.

He had been hesitant at first to explain, but why he could not have said. “I met a man,” he had explained, “a man who claimed to have information for me – or, more exactly, about me.”

Aman’s eyes had narrowed at his manner. “What kind of information?”

He sighed, reluctant to continue, and again not sure why. “I was married once, long ago,” he said, and he caught Aman’s slight intake of breath. She was angry. “I was very young, and it was not for very long that we were together. My wife was slain…as was our child.”

“Oh, Snaveling, I…I had no idea…” Aman reached out a hand to him, but the shift in their relationship, so jarring and painful and recent, stilled her motion and she fumbled for something in her lap. It was this motion that Snaveling noticed and recognised. He had seen it before. His eyes locked on to her face and he saw in it something that had been there all along, but which he had never noticed before. What is it?

Shaken, he replied to Aman with unusual candour. “As I said, it was a long time ago. I had gone ahead to the winter hunting grounds with my companions to build shelters, and the women and children were coming along after. It is our way. They were ambushed by Dunlanders. None escaped.” He took another deep breath, reluctant to go on to the most painful part. “It took time and many years, but I had come to accept their loss. But the man I spoke of, he claimed to have information about that attack. He claimed that there were survivors of the attack…” he trailed off, and Aman’s eyes grew wide.

“Your wife?”

Shaking his head, he said quietly. “My son.” There was a moment of silence as the wind played about them, carrying their words away into the morning air of the Shire. The sun was still shining and the world was beautiful, but Snaveling could see none of it. “When I was in the King Elessar’s court, the story of my family became known. I believe that there was even a brief song made about it, ‘The Death of the Infant Heir’ it was called, I think. That the lost heir of Numenor should appear was a tale in itself, but when it was revealed that his infant son was slain by wild men of the hills, effectively ending that line, well…the Gondorians, I have found, are a sentimental people.” He managed a wry laugh. “This man I speak of is named Wutan and he came to hear of my story. He set out immediately to speak with me, but I had already left Minas Tirith in search of…to come North. He followed me, seeking me everywhere, and finally he found me at the Prancing Pony. I was just on my way back here from the marshes, and I was seeking comfort and warmth from a pint of ale. He sat across from me and introduced himself, but a more disreputable person I had not seen – not, at least, since I had looked at myself in the mirror when I was still a wandering and houseless vagabond! He told me that he had been servant to a lord of Rohan, and that this lord had taken in a foundling waif who had been taken by the Dunlendings. He claimed, that he could prove that this child was my own son, and that he could give me his name…for a price.

“Elessar had warned me that once my story and wealth were known that there would be many such men as this, and at first I refused to listen. But the more he spoke of the lost child and of the circumstances of his discovery, the more I was compelled to listen. For three days we stayed together at the Pony and I questioned him about his tale in the most particular detail, but never once did his story falter or change, and there was ever in his manner the air of a man telling the truth. He was a cunning and subtle scoundrel, no doubt, but I could see that he believed what he was telling me.

“Still, I would not pay the price he was demanding for the tokens that he spoke of. I told him that information which is bought with gold is as empty as the purse which has paid for it. Seeing that I was resolved he reluctantly produced his proof.” Snaveling reached into the folds of his tunic and produced a small brooch. Aman gasped in recognition, for she instantly saw from the shine of the metal that it was mithril, and it bore upon it a familiar design: a tall crown with seven stars above it.

“That design,” she said wonderingly, “it is the same as your amulet. The token that proved you to be the heir of Numenor!”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It is the match to that amulet. Before I left my family, I gave it to Heoll, my wife, to keep in trust for my son for he was but a year old. I demanded of Wutan how he came by it, but he refused to tell me. All he would say was that his lord had taken it from the child and kept it secret, believing it to be an evil device of the Dunlendings. It was the belief of this lord that the child was of Rohan, and that he had been taken by the wildmen as a slave. It was an easy mistake, for my son was like his mother, with hair that shone like straw and eyes as blue as the sky upon a winter’s morning. I believe now that Wutan stole the brooch from his lord when he fled in search of me, but as it is mine by right I took it despite the method of its return. I demanded to know the name and fate of my son, but Wutan demanded money again. I asked how much he wanted, no longer caring, and that was a mistake for he saw my desperation and asked a price so high that in paying it I left myself not only destitute, but in some considerable debt to the Innkeeper Barliman, who agreed to loan me the extra.

“It was a high price to pay for bitter news, for what I heard was little to my liking. He told me that my son had been named Arad by the lord and that he had been raised to think that he was the lord’s natural son. I was wild with hope but Wutan destroyed that like glass when he told me that Arad had gone to war with the Lord Elessar…and that he had fallen before the gates of Minas Tirith.” Snaveling felt a tear slide out of his eye, but he did not brush it away. “I lost my son again in that moment. But…” his voice caught. Aman’s hand reached out to his own and took it up, pressing it to her lips in a kiss. It was not a gesture of passion, but of comfort and friendliness and Snaveling returned it with a grateful look. Aman returned his gaze with a warm smile, like sunshine upon frozen ground.

And his breath had caught in his throat, and his heart had skipped a beat. For in that moment, the expression on the Innkeeper’s face, like so much about her, was as familiar to him as his own countenance, and for the first time he saw it fully. He was stunned that he could have been so blind to it all this time. For in her face he saw the likeness of his wife Heoll looking back at him. The expression of her eyes, the tilt of her head, even the deep and welling sadness came to him as though the years were but a day, and he was once again beholding his beloved bride. The resemblance had terrified him, and rather than continue the conversation he had hurried away, seeking solitude, and hoping that once more the girl’s goodness of heart would forgive him his odd shifts of mood.

As he sat at his table now, looking at Aman and sipping his wine, that moment of seeing his wife in the Innkeeper’s face returned, as did the rest of his conversation with Wutan – the part of the conversation that he had not been able to reveal to Aman. “But that is not the end of your line, Tar-Corondir!” he had said, “Arad did not die without issue; he left behind him a daughter – your grandchild!”

Snaveling had grasped Wutan by the wrist savagely, wringing from the wretch a cry of surprised pain. “Who is she?” he had demanded. “Where can I find her?”

“I do not know!” the man gasped from between clenched teeth. “Not for sure, but she may be nearby. Before I came in search of you I made inquires. Your son’s daughter came north some time ago to visit a friend, but she never returned.”

As Snaveling gazed upon Aman and remembered Wutan’s words, the truth was revealed to him with a thunderbolt. He fell back in his chair, and the wine glass slipped from his hand to shatter upon the floor. The Inn span about his head like a flock of birds, and he knew…he knew…

He had found his granddaughter.

[littlemanpoet]

While Falowik listened to the back and forth between Derufin, Benat, and all the others, quite happy to sit back and listen as he supped a brew, Uien stood before Falco Headstrong, horrified.

She was horrified by her own presumption and paternalism as the thoughts of the hobbit slid by her percipience.

Is my face so very expressive that this new Elf woman can read my thoughts? It is annoying.

Uien turned to Mithalwen and asked her mutely, Have I been that unsubtle? Mithalwen gave the slightest sympathetic shrug, unnoticed by Falco, who was looking at the ground, his face hidden; but not his thoughts. It is an unfair question. I don't mind them helping...

Uien went cold inside. Of course, the poor hobbit was right! It had been the height of arrogance for her to barge in and take charge, treating this hobbit like an inferior, speaking to him as if it had to be obvious that what she thought was right, was indeed the only way that could be. She did not withhold her thought from Mithalwen.

Falco blushed, for he was being more honest with himself than usual. I want to take care of the poor little lad. I never had any children of my own, always wanted them. It was my delight to take care of Marigold, but it would be wonderful to take care of a boy like Rory who will someday be a fine, upright young laddie. It helps me to pretend that I do have little sons and daughters of my own.

Uien laughed inwardly at her own earlier words, "There is more healing to be done here than one pair of legs." Falco needed to be needed. It was a simple thing, really. So wise, Uien, she scolded herself, as if you could possibly know best!

Falco's blush deepened as he accused himself of sentimentality. Now he was wrestling with what words to say, words that would not place him in the very kind of impossible situation that her own words had oh, so wisely, forced upon him! He was intimidated, of course. Who would not be? Uien scolded herself roundly and insisted to herself that she must stop being intimidating.

"I... don't... know..." he stuttered.

Uien was relieved. Wise hobbit. He had given her the only answer left to him that would not put him in virtual servitude to her "elf-knows-best" arrogance.

"I don't know," he murmured again, and stared at the ground.

Uien dropped to her knees before him, so that they were eye to eye. "You are a wise hobbit, Master Headstrong." The hobbit's head came up in surprise. The hobbit lass and lad watched, eyes wide. "I spoke thoughtlessly and placed you in a most difficult position. Forgive me! Mithalwen and I are pilgrims, passing through, and soon on our way. You will always be here with Rory and Marigold. The children look to you, not us. Please, tell us what you would have us do."

[Nurumaiel]

Falco gazed up at the Elf woman in deep amazement, and fumbled about with his hands. He was at a complete loss for words in the face of her kind smile, and he felt upset with himself. What had he said to make her apologise so? He had wanted to see these Elves apologise, but now that this fair lady was... it was not right. She had done nothing wrong. But... how could he say even that?

"I do not know what I would have you do," he faltered, feeling inclined to drop his eyes again, yet unable to take his eyes from her kind face. "Do what you think best for the lad. I know I can do nothing for him but be his friend... but perhaps you can help him more than that."

"Do you think," she said, "that to help restore the use of his legs would be a better help than the love and kindness you will show him?"

He crimsoned at her open use of the words 'love' and 'kindness' in relation to how he felt towards the lad, and at the not at all subtle implication of praise in her words. He could think of nothing to say, but again: "Do what you think best." And then he hurried to sit beside Rory and Marigold before she would say anything further.

Marigold smiled shyly up at him, and when he looked down at her he started momentarily, the vague feeling of familiarity stirred up in him again, as it had been at the hand-fasting the day before. He felt, as he had then, that he had known her before, and it puzzled him.

"I do look to you, Mr. Headstrong," she said. "You've been kinder to me than any other hobbit since my dear mamma and papa died."

He started again, more violently this time. He had not known that her parents were dead. He had wondered absently why she was wandering about with no one to care for her, but he had never guessed that she had no parents.

She put a little hand on his arm and looked up at him with big, shining, earnest eyes. "Will you take care of me?" she asked.

Falco looked quickly away and coughed, and made a grunting noise that could be taken as either agreement or dissent. Of course he would, if she wanted to him, and even if she didn't really care if he did or not. But this was getting much too sentimental. Little hobbit girls could have big shining eyes, but it was awkward when they were looking up at a crusty old hobbit. Much too sentimental.

"Do you know, it has gotten quite late, and I did not notice!" he said, coughing hastily again. "Why don't we find a nice table to sit at, my lad and lass, and prepare ourselves for the delicious supper that is no doubt waiting for us?"

[littlemanpoet]

Uien rose as Falco Headstrong led Rory and Marigold to a table, and turned to Mithalwen. "It seems that we must wait until after supper to take a measurement, unless you trust your eye."

"There is time," Mithalwen replied.

Uien frowned. "I fear I use the osanwé overmuch. As easily not perceive the thoughts of those around me as not to smell a rose that is held before my face."

"I do not blame you for its use."

"Thank you," Uien smiled. Then she turned, and shared her thought with Mithalwen. "Did you notice that, a shock in someone? A man who calls himself Snaveling. I wonder what befalls there?"

[Tevildo]

Camille had finished the last of the chores that Cook had assigned and had even gotten permission to join her family for supper. “Just tonight, mind you,” Cook hastily explained. “I can’t have you in the kitchen chopping and scrubbing while your family has its first meal in the Inn, especially not when Master Falco was so kind to set up everything.”

Camille had nodded in agreement and stolen a quick look at the five cakes that had been set on a sideboard in the kitchen. These were small cakes but not too small: each one just the right size for a hearty hobbit appetite. “Out with you now, Miz Camille,” Cook had chastised her lightly. “No use fixing on the end of the meal until you get through the beginning.”

Then Camille had helped to carry out a tureen of stew and a platter heaped high with biscuits to the table where her family was sitting. On one end of the table Falco presided. Rory was seated on his left and Marigold on his right. She and her mother were next to each other on the opposite end facing their benefactor.

Camille beamed brightly at her mother. “Ma, you look pretty tonight.” For her mother indeed looked far happier and more radiant than Camille had seen her for some time. She was wearing her nicest dress, a green skirt with a vest of brown and a small lace collar; she had combed back her thick red curls, and had even fastened a ribbon with a locket about her neck. Camille wondered if Master Falco had noticed how lovely her mother looked. She wondered if there wasn’t some way to get her mother to sit beside Mister Falco instead of Rory, but she didn’t know how to do that politely.

When her mother and Master Falco began discussing the arrangement with the laundry, Camille got out of her seat to give her brother a hug. She noticed he had found one of the little placards on which appeared the names of the foods that were to be served at the Inn for that particular day. Rory could not read the words but was carefully tracing the letters with the tip of his finger. He did not stop even when the stew and biscuits were set on the table in front of him. The young boy asked Camille to read the words for him, but she just threw up her hands and laughed, “I’m no good with words, Rory. Perhaps Master Falco can help you, or even Marigold.”

[Mithalwen]

Snaveling! Mithalwen's curiosity about the man had been her reason for staying and now she had got caught up with first Marigold and then Camille and Rory. She had only come to the inn to shelter from the foul weather and this would be her third night. Tonight was paid for but if she needed to stay longer for Rory's sake .. well she would think about that tomorrow.

At least, Uien had made her aware of the source of Mr Headstrong's resentment - injured pride. Uien and she had made the same understandable mistake... elvish communities were it seemed more communal than hobbit ones. Different people had different skills but used them largely for the common good. She started in her gentlest, humblest tones,

"Mr Headstrong, I believe braces could be made to straighten and support young Rory's legs while his limbs strengthen. I have the skill to do this, but I do not have the resources since I am merely travelling through the land. Perhaps you know where I could obtain, the steel and leather I will need - for local folk know best where to find these things and get the best value......"

Falco had seemed mollified to be asked for his advice and promised to give it his consideration. Mithalwen thought ruefully of her workshop at the havens. There she could have done this kindness using spare materials at no cost other than time. She hoped Falco might offer to pay for the materials but she suspected that if she admitted to her limited resources he would think her some penniless vagrant - at least a foolish traveller who did not think to prepare herself for her journey. He would not know that she had journeyed often to Rivendell but that this was the first time she had needed to spend more than trifling amounts. . She excused herself to the group audibly and Uien silently, giving her a fuller impression of why she felt the need to talk to Snaveling . "I will return after the meal".

She decided that she could afford wine at least and collecting a bottle of the local vintage (a fine drop thanks in part to the Lady Galadriel's gift) and slipped across to the obscure corner where Snaveling sat . " Tar Corondir.. may I join you? We have not had a chance to speak sice Marigold's mishap - from which she seems to have suffered no lasting effects - I hope you resolved the embarassment of her indiscretion with Miss Aman?" Then she was close enough to see the expression on his face and on whom his glance was fixed .. perhaps not... she sought to probe his mind "Tar Corondir, what has happened?"