The Seventh Star Inn

[mark12_30]

"Werewolves? Hmmm...." muttered Willow, giving Oak and Beech a wary glance. "Interesting. Well, Master Fordim, welcome; we do look forward to your tales. Shall we hear you sing? Or, perhaps, howl--"

Beech cuffed him sharply.

Willow was indignant. "I was being polite. Culturally sensitive. Open minded."

"Save it, sapling," muttered Oak, and then stepped forward. "Welcome, Fordim of the Gauntlet! Be not startled; word travels. We shall gladly hear your tales, be they vengeful or rabid, all in good time, my dear fellow, all in good time. Cheers!"

[Child of the 7th Age]

There was a lull in conversation as the Inn door swung open to reveal a small, bedraggled hobbit slumped over on the stoop. Cami Goodchild slowly placed one furry foot ahead of the other and rose unsteadily, hoisting up a claw hammer with one hand and an overflowing bucket with the other. Strapped to her back was a large canvas sling that carried the remains of what looked like someone's garden fence. Water dripped down from Cami's curly hair and round red nose making a considerable accumulation on the spot where she was standing.

"Watch out there!", growled one of the serving lads standing near the door. "Yer makin' a terrible mess on the floor, now. Get down there and clean up that puddle, or there'll be no hot meal and flagon of ale for you.

Cami stuck out her tongue at the good fellow who was nearly twice her size, "Enough! I've had enough headaches the past few days. I just wanted to come down to the Seventh Star and offer my best wishes to the illustrious Master Fordim. Only I've had such a hard time getting here. Our home was hit with a slew of bad weather, fierce stuff that reminded me of the Tale of Beleriand that Master Bilbo used to recite. Great winds and water, such as you wouldn't believe! So I don't see why you are making such a fuss over a bit of water on the floor."

The lad responded in a gentler voice, "Sorry there now. I didn't know you'd run into such a string of bad luck. Are you alright now, Mistress Cami?," he queried. "Not hurt I hope....you or your burrow?"

"No," added Cami with a shake of her head and a reassuring smile. "We are all doing quite well. We thought of leaving and staying with my cousin Widow Bunche who hails from the westlands. But there were so many carts and horses on the road that it was impossible to make any real progress. After seven hours of going in circles, we came back in and hunkered down in our burrow for the night. We've a mess to clean up, but nothing worse than that. But I am most grateful to see this nasty weather go away. Still, there are folk much worse off than I. Some live further east and their homes were flattened to the ground. Others are older folk living in my neighborhood who have little food stocked away for hard times like these. I need to give my greetings quickly and then return to the Shire to see if I can help."

With that, Mistress Cami ran over towards the place where Fordim was sitting.

[Bêthberry]

A pleasant cacaphony of voices, cheers and activity rolled around the Star as the party to celebrate Fordim's arrival in Gondor progressed. Towels and mops had greeted Cami's arrival but then they were put away and the floor was left to a gossipy hum about werewolves and survivors. At first, few noticed the strange little man who entered the front door but as he made his way into the storied inn, voices began to drop and fade away.

He was of stature slight, particularly compared to Gondorians, although taller than either Cami or Fordim. He carried himself proudly, his lithe body speaking of skill and agility rather than mass and torpor. He might be said to favour one leg, yet it could not be said he appeared crippled. A veteran of wars he apparently was, for he also bore a long scar from a thin right eyebrow down across his high cheekbone to his ear, part of which was missing. The eye under the scar was closed, the sunken lid hanging over the socket that now was useless. A perpetual twitch pulled the muscles of his cheekbone, giving his face a strange sensation of rapid motion.

His hair, straight and black and cut evenly, hung down past his ears and was held in place by a red band across his forehead, a style rarely seen in the White City. His nose was broad but long, set on an equally long face with square jaw and small mouth, thin lipped. Yet of all his features it was his sallow, tawny skin which stiffened the attention of the Star's patrons.

The room went silent as he surveyed them first and then sought out the funny hobbit whose face was hidden behind a tankard.

Two, maybe three men from the corner rose towards him. "We don't see your kind much in these parts."

The man ignored them and continued walking towards Fordim. Another man spoke louder.

"He said, Easterling, we don't see your kind here. He meant, we don't want your kind here."

"Halt," spoke a voice with authority. A guard of Gondor, with an empty sleeve tied to his tunic , came forward and took a long look at the man's face. He paled. "Sôông, Sôông the Sullen," he said.

The man looked at him from his one good eye and, awareness flooding into his face, nodded slowly.

"We met on the Pelennor Field."

A tankard crashed in the kitchen, but none were startled by the sound.

They looked over each's wound. "An eye for an arm, Thregor," whispered Sôông.

"You dare to show your face in The White City?''

"I come on errand." A murmur arose.

"And who would bid an enemy enter our walls?"

"One who calls me not enemy." The murmur grew louder.

"Of who among us would you claim that?"

"One not here." Dust hung in the air refusing to twist in the sunlight as Thregor considered his options.

"Name him and state your peace."

Sôông took his time, marking the faces staring at him. His eyes lighted on the person who fit the description he had been given.

"I come on errand from Edoras, from the White Horse. Bethberry is she who will not name me enemy. Bethberry it is who has a message for the hobbit recently come to your city."

Fordim spoke up. "What could Bethberry ask of you concerning me?"

"She bids me say you departed in such haste that you left no instructions for her concerning your banner. She asks what colours you wish and what design for your story of the East."

"Well I'll be," said Fordim, astonished at the Innkeeper's audacity. He had never in his life come face to face with an Easterling and now here she was poking one in his face.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Still shaking his head at the alarming presence of the Easterling (and, perhaps, if the truth were to be told, shaking a bit in his clothes – for hobbits do not wear boots of course, except in muddy weather) Fordim did what came naturally to him when confronted with a question to which he not only had no answer, but had been totally unprepared for: he put on a thoughtful face and made as though he were giving it deep consideration. His herms and mutterings covered the deep and terrible blank that was his imagination at this precise moment. He fell back on an old trick.

“I don’t know,” he replied breezily, “you undoubtedly are aware of the tale, what do you think the banner should be?””

Sôông scowled at him darkly before proclaiming rather stiffly, “It is not for the listener to describe the tale, but the teller.”

Fordim tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes at the Easterling. “Is it? Is it really? I know that there are many people in this wide world who believe that, but the great lady who sent you is – I assure you – not one of them, nor am I. She and I have spoken of such matters at some length and we rather feel that it is the teller and the listener together who, in some way, are both involved in the creation of the tale’s banner. There are even some,” and here he tilted his head at the sleeping, pot-festooned figure snoring in the corner, “who believe that the teller is entirely irrelevant to the creation of the banner and that it is the listener’s task alone! If you have the time, there are a few tomes of great learning hereabouts that you can look at which detail these debates at some length, the first and – if I may say so – finest of these is called Canonicity…”

At the mere mention of the Thread That Must Not Be Named Esty the loremistress sprang to her feet, crying out “Ai Ai!” There were deep murmurings in the earth and a fell smoke poured toward the White City from Mordor. All eyes glared at Fordim, and the little fellow seemed to shrink into his mug of ale, to which he plied himself in a great show of silencing himself. When the skies were once again light and the birds had begun to sing, Fordim quickly said in a very small voice, “I think that it might be nice to have something with a hooded figure upon it, with the device of a single Ring above, while below him, alleviating the darkness that the figure casts, nine glittering stars, one for each of the gamers who made the tale worth the telling.”

[piosenniel]

All eyes seemed to glare at the Fordim, or so it seemed to Pio. All except hers. What she wanted to do was finish her game and down the mug of foaming dark ale that sat on a nearby stool.

The tenseness in the room seemed to thicken. It crept up her spine, making her shoulders twitch in irritation. She threw the last of the darts at the board, hitting the outside ‘1’. ‘By the One!’ she muttered, along with a few silent, more guttural imprecations.

‘Hey!’ she said to the grey server that hovered near. ‘Here’s a gold coin. Buy the house a round.’ End over end, the shiny disc arced, falling at the server’s feet. ‘I know, I know. It’s all free here . . . but humor me. I feel generous today.’ She stood back and looked critically at the server. ‘If nothing else, at least buy yourself a pretty scarf and brighten up that . . . uniform.’

She grabbed her dark blue cloak from the peg by the side door and threw it about her shoulders. Perhaps she could catch Cami before she headed out the door . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Cami stood in the outer hallway, her ear pressed tightly against the wooden door. She was weighing the words that she had just heard from inside the common room and was wondering if it was entirely wise for her to go back there at this time. Earlier, she had wrung the worst of the wet out of her skirt and bright embroidered vest and had decided that she might try to rent some accomodations for the evening. There was no sense trying to head out to her burrow in the middle of the night. Perhaps she should purchase some needed foodstuffs and building supplies at the peddlar's booths in Gondor the very next morning; the shelves in the Shire were still quite sparse on account of that blasted storm. She could even hire a pony to help carry her goods back home. All that had seemed fine and sensible until she'd heard Fordim and the others discussing the possible advent of an old and much dreaded nemesis.

She glanced up with some hesitation only to see Piosenniel's familiar face poking through the half-opened door. "Do you think it's safe?" she whispered to the Elf. "I mean to go back inside the common room for a meal. I thought I heard the word Canonicity . 'Tis enough to make a poor hobbit quake. The last time anyone mentioned that name, I was trapped inside the Books forum for twenty-two days with no possible way to escape. I've a mind to stay at the Inn tonight but if that nasty Canonicity is set on making an appearance, I would as soon sleep outside under the tree. You just can't trust that monstor." Cami gestured towards the outer door and then shook her head in exasperation.

"Now, if we might have a tale or a spot of music round the hearth fire....that would suit me just fine. Those shadowy werewolves should surely have something interesting to say. Or do you think we are doomed to take arms against this Canonicity ?" Cami shuddered slightly and then added, "By any chance, you wouldn't know where I could pick up some good fence pickets, or perhaps hire a pony here in Gondor?

[Bêthberry]

Sôông the Easterling ignored the actions of others in the Star and attended closely instead to Fordim's words.

"I understand not your words about teller and tale and listener, for I am not beholding to the law of the One," he replied carefully, not wishing to engender any more hostility, "yet your words are such as will satisfy she who sent me." He bowed formally to the hobbit and looked around to see how he could withdraw from the Inn. No one invited him to stay, nor to share a tankard of ale. At first, none gave way to allow him to leave, but the actions of the cloaked elf and wet, bedraggled hobbit allowed him to manage his egress without incident beyond that of stares. Breathing a sigh of relief and holding his head aside, he repeated Fordim's words to himself until he had them memorised for recital to the lady who sent him.

"“I think that it might be nice to have something with a hooded figure upon it, with the device of a single Ring above, while below him, alleviating the darkness that the figure casts, nine glittering stars, one for each of the gamers who made the tale worth the telling.”

Regaining his horse from the stable master was easy, as the man barely lifted his eyes to the strange figure before him and merely pocketed the coin Sôông handed him. Yet leaving the White City was no easy task, for many in the streets glared at him and more than one soldier guarding the many gates at each circle stopped him, forced him to dismount, and demanded a tariff if not a search of his person for weapons or stolen goods. One even landed a cuff to the back of his head once he was turned on his horse. Still, it was better than a sword or arrow through his back and so Sôông was grateful for that.

There were ragged tents and a rough sort of open market along the walls outside the city, attended by people coarsely clothed, maimed, hobbled, and obviously poor. Some of the traders looked like war veterans who, much like himself, would carry the scars of battle to their grave however their minds might change. Among these people he was the better received, however, with none remarking upon his origin. Here he sought his provisions for his return to Edoras. He filled his bag with foodstuffs, and, as the sun reached midday, began his long trek towards the Western Road. He had been loathe to make the journey, but he needed work and Bethberry was true. He knew she would keep her word.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

A silence had fallen upon the Seventh Star after the departure of Sôông the Easterling. Glasses were emptied, the excitement over the new arrival died down, and dust settled once more on those gathered about the tables. Silence.

There emerged from this silence, at long last, the sound of a pencil scribbling upon parchment. Eyes were drawn toward the corner table where Fordim had established himself and the people of the Star saw that he was hard at work, writing, then crumpling up the parchment, taking out a fresh sheet, and then writing some more. At long last he cried sat back, sighed and stood up. Clearing his throat he addressed the room.

“Greetings,” he began. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to beginning a new adventure now that I’m here, and I think that at long last I may have found something worthy of the luminaries gathered here.” He bowed deeply to the room. There was no response. He carried on, unaware. “I have a proposal for a new story that I’d like us to tell!” Still, the silence reigned, but again Fordim seemed unconcerned. Striding across to the board he tacked a sign to it. One by one, the people of the Star moved to have a look…

A Long Overdue Party

The year is TA 2920 and Gerontius Took is turning 130 years old. Aged but still hale, he has decreed that there is to be no birthday party for him at all this year – as there hasn’t been for the last ten years, not since before the Fell Winter of 2911 when provisions were so scarce that he had felt it improper to squander much needed supplies. Since that date, although times have improved, there are still many hobbits in the Shire, on both sides of the Brandywine, who have not fully recovered from that terrible year and the Thain has made it a point of pride that until every Hobbit can afford to celebrate their birthdays in fine style, neither shall he.

Unbeknownst to Gerontius, however, his vast family – having suffered through a decade without the annual celebration of the Thain (and its attendant days and nights of food and joviality) – has decided that a proper party is long overdue. To get around the decree of the Thain, they have called a secret meeting to discuss a grand party that shall take place on the Thain’s birthday but not necessarily in celebration of his birthday…

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The game shall begin with all gamers sneaking into this meeting, which will be held deep in the vast storerooms of the Great Smials. The purpose of the game will be to plan the party, keep it a secret from Old Gerontius, and then to make sure that it comes off.

The game will be open to all gamers in Gondor and perhaps (if numbers are needed) to gamers in the Shire and Rohan on an invitation-only basis. All characters in this game are to be drawn from the genealogical tables found in the Appendices of The Return of the King.

As the game initiator I would ask that anyone interested in playing in this game begin by selecting a Hobbit from the genealogical tables and posting that name to the discussion thread so that everyone will know that this character has been “claimed.” Then begin work on a first post, detailing your character’s trip to and/or arrival at the meeting. When we have enough gamers, I will open a game thread and transfer these first posts there.

As there will be little “action” in this game it will live or die purely by the quality and complexity of the relationships that get established between the characters. Given that most of them will be related to one another, or close friends of the family, they will obviously be very familiar with one another, so I would ask that all gamers work together closely both in the discussion thread and via PM to make sure that the state of relations between their characters are established clearly before the game begins. Ideally, of course, these relations will be strained, change, evolve or even be transformed in game play.

The way I think that this would work best is by asking everyone to post a kind of personality profile for their character, rather than a biography or history. It hardly seems necessary to state this here in Gondor, but I would simply remind people that having a long and elaborate ‘back story’ for your character tends to dampen the spontaneity and creativity of the game. If we could all simply give a sketch of what our character is like, then it would undoubtedly be easier to work out who gets along with whom, or not, as the case may be…

As I have long wanted to play a woman character (and as I am the game initiator) I am going to go ahead and immediately claim Adamanta Took (Gerontius’s wife; née Chubb) as my own. By way of example of the kind of personality profile I am thinking of, here’s what Adamanta is like:

Adamanta, while much younger than her husband, now enjoys the sobriety of age. Formerly possessed of a fiery temper, she is now slow to anger, but quick to hold a grudge against those whom she feels have slighted her or – worse – members of her family. Her sense of familial obligation is such that she would throw herself in front of the Wolves for any one of them…even those whom she is not so fond of. This dedication, which may appear as love, is really born of pride in her vast and accomplished clan. Formerly a Chubb, she is aware of the status that has been conferred upon her by her marriage to the Thain and she guards this status zealously. To her friends she is open, kind, friendly and full of good, sound (although sometimes unsolicited) advice. To those who cross her or earn her ill-will she unabashedly demonstrates contempt and impatience. Her favourite past-time is working in the garden where she has established a formal flower garden known throughout the Shire for its many varieties, some of which she has herself created and named after members of her family. Some of the varieties have, in fact, been renamed as the original honourees fell out of favour with the mercurial and indomitable matriarch of the Tooks.

A murmur went up at this (as did some eyebrows) but again, Fordim seen entirely unaware of these (the eyebrows). He crossed his arms quite magnificently and announced in his best announcing voice: “I have already spoken with some of you about this game, and as thanks for your efforts I’ve given these people the chance to select their roles in advance.

“Esty has said that she would like to write for Donnamira Boffin, daughter of Adamanta and Gerontius and, as it would happen, great-grandmother to Folco, about who Esty knows a bit…

“Pio wishes to create Flambard Took, son of Isembard, grandson of Gerontius.

“Child has said that Belladonna Took is of interest to her.

“AND FINALLY!” he raised his voice at this Announcement, a look of smug self-satisfaction upon his face, “the role of Gerontius Took is to be undertaken by none other than The Barrow Wight himself, to whom I have promised that – as I shall be writing for Gerontius’ wife – that there will be no mushy stuff in this game…at least between the elder Tooks!”