The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[littlemanpoet]

As twilight slowly gave way to dusk, to dark of night, Uien sat before the Hawthorn tree, allowing herself to dream, and the tree to be free from her observance. Eyes unclosed, she dreamed from memory.

She was one of Galadriel's maidens, sewing the cloaks the eight remaining members of the Fellowship would wear. Lorien was home, Caras Galadon her beloved city in those many years leading to the War of the Ring. She had been stricken with grief at the news that the grey pilgrim had fallen in Moria.

As they sewed, she looked to the Lady of Lorien. She was herself a young elf lass of a mere two hundred or so years, the last babe of Lorien. To sit with She who had been in Valimar, who had crossed wills with Féanor, sat at the feet of Melian of Doriath, had known Luthien the fair, and had seen the dimming of the Light across three Ages, was like a being a seedling beside the eldest mallorn, a puddle beside an ancient fountain. And these thoughts did little to express the greatness of the Lady.

Galadriel looked at her maidens with eyes that knew all their thought with but a glance, for she could read the hearts of anyone, and her maidens had no secrets from her. Yet this was no troubling thought, for the Lady's wisdom taught her maidens much, and never betrayed their thought to others. It was like sitting at the feet of the very gods of Valimar.

Uien had been amongst those in the house of Lord Celeborn when the Fellowship had first come to them. She remembered the Ringbearer, whose grief at the loss of the Grey Pilgrim was plain for all to see. She remembered how the Lady had looked into the hearts of each of the Fellowship, and how the servant of the Ringbearer had blushed so quickly. She and many others had smiled, for he had been thus revealed as true to his master. She had been struck with wonder at the words of the Dwarf, who had become famous already in the brief span of years that had passed since the end of the War, for his wealth and unselfishness; the Lady's word had proved true, as well it might. Then there was the man of Minas Tirith, whose hard eyes quickly looked away from the Lady. Many in that chamber frowned and boded it ill. Then there was their kin...

Someone tapped her shoulder. She withdrew from her memory and looked up and behind. It was Falowik. She smiled. The memories would always be there.

"Yes, my love?"

"It is getting late. Is this where you wish to spend the night?"

"Aye, Lauréatan. Come rest your head upon my lap and sleep well this night."

He knelt beside her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. His voice was gruff. "It has been a long, hard day, my fair one. It is good to see you whole again." She smiled. He lay down in the bower, resting his head on her lap. She caressed his brow, and soon he was asleep.

Then there was their kin, Legolas from the court of Thranduil....

[Lasbelinion]

The lights from the kitchen windows shone like beacons in the falling dark. On silent feet Lithmîrë made his way toward them from his hiding place. Wary of any that might see him, he crept from pooling shadow to shadow, stopping often to sense any who might be near.

His head ached with a fierce, sharp pain, made more insistent by the burning torment of his face and arm. They throbbed increasingly, the damaged nerves raw. His little supply of herbs to quell the agony was depleted, and the dose he’d had in his morning tea had been too long ago. He focused on Mistress Bunce’s promise of helping him to replenish his stock as he made his way back to the Inn.

Lithmîrë’s breath caught in his throat as he noted the two figures near the hawthorn tree. The Elf who had chased him and someone who lay sleeping on her lap. He pulled up his hood and gave the two a wide berth, closing his mind hard against any intrusion from her.

Long it seemed until his steps brought him to the kitchen door. He hesitated as his hand reached for the knob, thinking perhaps he should not barge in. Raising his fist, he gave three soft knocks, then stepped to the side of the little stoop to wait in the darkness for someone to answer.

[Gwydion]

The door to the inn opened and the dark of the night was briefly peirced by the light inside the Green Dragon. A tall rugged-looking man strode in through the door and quietly closed it. The stranger had dark, wild looking hair that reached to his shoulders and bloodshot, indigo eyes. His clothes were worn from use and the wear and tear of life outdoors.

His leather boots silently padded across the floor. "Innkeeper", he asked in a surprisingly gentle voice, " may I have a pint of ale and some supper?" The innkeeper nodded approval and gave the stranger supper,a stewed brace of conies, peas and two large biscuits which he covered in a generous heap of butter. As soon as the man finished buttering his bread and readying himself to eat he dove into his food like a man who has not eaten in a few days. The innkeeper gave a small chuckle and slowly walked away. During the course of the meal a man asked the stranger some questions, was he passing through, and other such things. These questions he answered with one or two words. Eventually the stranger revealed his name.

" I am Alastair son of Aronwÿ, a ranger from the north if you must know." As he spoke he had been slowly raising his voice and by the time he had finished evryone in the inn was staring at him, but they quickly looked away. "Forgive me for my actions," he asked of the innkeeper and said nothing else for the remainder of his meal.

After he had finished his meal he pulled out a simple pipe of willow and began to smoke. He began to look around the room, scanning each person before flicking his eyes to the next person. Alastair noted that the inn was very diverse and how the occupants got a long. Alastair leaned back against the counter and as he did he winced and gasped as the floor began to sway in front of him. He knew he should have waited longer before journeying again. Silently he cursed hiomself before sliding into darkness.

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger and the stricken man

‘My stars!’ thought Ginger, setting her tray down at a nearby table. ‘What’s wrong with that poor man?’

The Innkeeper had asked her to go about with a pitcher of ale and refresh the mugs of those sitting at the tables. Just as she’d finished pouring a round for Gil and his companions, she noted the dark haired man at the next table looking rather ill. His eyes looked unfocused, his face blanched, and of a sudden, he gasped aloud and toppled from his chair.

‘Need some help here!’ she called running quickly to where he lay crumpled on the floor.’ She laid his hand on his chest to see if he were still breathing, and let out her own breath when she found he was.

‘Someone bring me a cold wet cloth!’ she yelled.

[Arry]

Moving Alistair to the kitchen

Gil came running after Ginger, motioning for his friends to follow. They knelt down by the man and looked him over. ‘Doesn’t look too good, does he?’ said Tomlin, as they rolled him over slightly looking for blood.

‘Name’s Alastair’ the Innkeeper said. ‘Says he’s a Ranger from up north.’ The Innkeeper had brought over a clean, wet bar rag and handed it to Ginger, who’d begun wiping the man’s face with it.

‘Let’s take him to the kitchen,’ said Gil, indicating his friends should each take a limb and help hoist the fellow. ‘Cook’s got some medicines I’m sure can bring him round.’

[Envinyatar]

Lending a hand

Derufin saw the flurry of activity as he made his way to the bar to get another pitcher of ale. Calling out to the Hobbits, he told them to take the Ranger's legs while he carried the man's upper body. Zimzi held the kitchen door open for the little band and their burden, then followed them through.

She went to the cupboard where Cook stored her medicines and got out the vial of smelling salts. Directing them to lay the Ranger on the long table, she uncorked the bottle and held it beneath his nose, waving it back and forth.

'Alistair!' she spoke softly to him. 'Wake up!'

[piosenniel]

~*~ GREEN DRAGON INN FACTS ~*~

The Green Dragon Inn is located in Bywater, just off the Great East-West Road.

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; Man from southwestern Gondor (played by Envinyatar)

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

Meriadoc - Stablemaster

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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

[littlemanpoet]

Falowik stirred in Uien's lap and looked up, a question in his eyes. She hushed him. "Many hours must pass before dawn, Lauréatan," she whispered, caressing his brow. He sighed, smiling, and passed back into sleep.

Her Elven awareness heightened by his wakefulness, Uien sensed another Elf not far away, coming near. It was the burned one, he whom Falowik had named Lithmirë. He stopped suddenly, drawing a harsh breath, and labored away from them, his mind tightly shut. Uien sighed. There was much she could do for that suffering one, even though his hurt was worse than Falowik's had ever been. She let it pass. That one was not ready to be aided. She was not sure she could heal him, though that was her art, but she knew that she could assuage his pain. But only if he wished it.

Her awareness of that Elf, approaching the Inn, brought yet another Elf within her perception. Mithalwen was in a corner of the Common Room, writing. She also seemed closed. Uien sighed. A day ago Uien had called her "heart's friend", but this day that had just passed Uien had given her what was commonly known in the world of humans as 'the brush off'. 'I must go and make it right.' As she was about to lift Falowik's head from her lap, she sensed that Mithalwen was hiding from her! Then she would stay away. A tear slipped from her eye and she let it fall.

She looked up and saw that the hawthorn tree was still there. 'Do you see all the darkness that has not faded with the passing of the Dark Lord, hawthorn?' She did not speak her thought. Then she looked down at the Man who loved her. His face was peaceful. She thought it beautiful, though other Elves would think her daft or fallen to quaintness, but they did not know this one whom she knew. He had opened his heart to her, and had accepted all the difficult darknesses that were in her own heart. She smiled and bowed her head over his face, her long golden hair catching the gleaming stars as it fell around his face, and she kissed his brow. He stirred briefly, and the faintest echo of a smile passed his lips.

She was on the Swan ship with the Lady of Lórien as it floated down the Silverlode to meet the three small boats of the Company of the Ring. She held in her hand one of the cloaks, the one made for the youngest of the Halflings. She had worked hard at the brooch that would clasp it at his neck, and had wondered what the fate of this cloak and brooch would be.....

[Firefoot]

After a hearty supper, Thistle sat back in her chair. She and Peony had maintained light conversation throughout the meal, and while the lass's enduring cheerfulness was slightly irritating, it was also contagious. The combination of good food and conversation had improved her mood considerably so that she had almost forgotten about the two insolent lads who had run into her and waved to her from atop the furniture respectively.

Noticing the darkened sky through the windows, Thistle realized the day was drawing to a close and that she had best be getting home. "It was nice chatting with you, Peony, and thank you for your company. However, I'd best be getting on home, as it's getting rather late. You're from around here, you said? Perhaps I'll be seeing you around."

"Yes, perhaps," Peony answered with a smile. "Good night, then."

"Good night, lass." With that Thistle levered herself to her feet and, picking up her cane, thumped her way towards the door. On her way she passed some people carrying a tall man into the kitchen, and she hmph'ed. "Too much ale, no doubt," she muttered to herself. Men who drank more ale than they could take were another one of the many things she could not stand.

She pushed through the door, leaving the Inn behind for the night. "A tad too chilly," she murmured absently. Never happy without something to complain about, that was her way. "And not even the moon shines to light the way..."

[Gwydion]

"Wha... Where am I?" Alastair moaned. His vision was fuzzy, but clearing quickly. His forehead felt wet and there was a strange smell hanging in the air. Alastair tried to move his arm, but his wound twinged painfully when he did. Slowly he moved his arm to it's former position and waited until the pain subsided. He looked around and realized he was laying on a long table.

"Thank you for your help. I have an old wound from an orc, but I think I can clean it on my own." Alastair moved his arm to try and see his wound and gasped in pain and fought nausea. "Nevermind, I think I will need your help after all. But first may I have some sleep?" Someone agreed and helped him walk to his room. He layed down and pulled a thin blanket over his body and slipped into a fitful sleep.

[Lasbelinion]

Dinner with Mistress Bunce

Lithmîrë sipped at his tea, watching Mistress Bunce move about the kitchen tending to this task and that. The stew was stirred, and portions of it served up in bowls for the diners in the Common Room. One of the servers, Buttercup, he heard her called, came down from her room, and putting on a fresh apron, picked up the tray of food to take it out. He wondered as Mistress Bunce stopped her, hand on hip, her foot tapping expectantly. There must have been some problem earlier, he thought, because the lass flushed guiltily, then put a smile on her face before leaving the kitchen.

He took another sip, the brew easing the pain that shot through his scarred cheek and arm. Whatever the Hobbit had put in it was doing its job and quickly. He found himself giving a half smile as Mistress Bunce chattered on to him. Her back was to him; she was slicing some bread to fill the baskets for the tables. The flow of words was light, requiring no answer on his part. Soothing, almost. And he wondered if perhaps they held some Shire magic that infused the pain relieving tea with greater power.

‘I should like to do that,’ he said, startling the Hobbit for a moment, so that she grew quiet and turned to see if it were he who had indeed answered. ‘Granny Oldbuck’s woods,’ he went on, referencing his remarks. ‘If you can take the time to show me, that is.’

Before answering him she plunked a generous serving of stewed coney with vegetables in front of him, along with a basket of fresh sliced bread and the pot of butter and another of honey. He nodded at her, waiting to pick up his spoon until she had seated herself.