The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Dunwen]

Widow Rosebank had been washing dishes when a broom had suddenly appeared over her right shoulder and a muddy mass of dingy white fur had dropped like a stone into the dish pan. Like a stone, it had sent a fair amount of dirty dishwater over the edge of the pan and onto her bodice and apron. The mass of fur started yowling and, resolving itself into a very unhappy-looking cat, leapt out of the pan (scattering yet more dishwater onto Widow Rosebank, this time getting her in the face).

At about the same moment, Miz Bunce had appeared, shrieking for someone to grab the cat, only to slip and fall in the puddle at the Widow's feet. For the second time that day, she was nearly knocked off her feet by a hobbit. Blindly catching herself on the counter, she did keep her feet, but nearly fell again when Ruby charged past, determined to follow Cook's order. More shrieks filled the air as little Wren Woodlock entered the kitchen and in the way of small girls, took the cat's part.

The widow, firmly on the side of orderly kitchens, was quick to come to Ruby's assistance. Stepping over Miz Bunce and Ruby, she firmly grasped the angry cat by the scruff of its neck and relieved him of his ill-gotten chicken. Handing the carcass to Ruby, who had let go of the tail once she saw that the culprit was firmly in the Widow's hands, she wrapped the furious animal up in her apron.

"Bad kitty!," she scolded. "Bad, bad, BAD kitty!" The unrepentant feline put its ears back and hissed ferocisously while trying to free a forefoot to claw her. "Pish, tush," the widow replied, wrapping her apron more tightly around the small wriggling body. "If you're going to be such a nuisance, you're going to get the trouble that comes with it."

The cat expressed his disdain for the widow's statement with a series of yowls and hisses and continued his attempts to escape. Disregarding this show of force, the widow tucked him firmly under her arm and looked about the kitchen. Ruby was protectively cuddling a smoked chicken. Miz Bunce was sopping wet and nearly shooting sparks out of her eyes as she glared about. She herself wasn't any drier, and was holding a loudly caterwauling cat in her apron. Wren was demanding the instant release of the creature. All in all, they looked like a collection of lunatics.

The Widow tried. She really did. This was just not the moment, she told herself firmly. But alas, she couldn't help herself. "Well, at least the dishes are clean," she said.

But she couldn't stop the giggle that escaped her. Or the one after that.

[Folwren]

Wren looked in disbelief at the Widow, laughing as if the whole thing was actually funny. The bundle of cat and apron under arm was still struggling like mad. Wren’s hands went to her hips and she stamped furiously, her foot splashing in the water still on the ground.

“Why don’t you let him go?” she demanded. “You’ll hurt him if you keep him like that - or suffocate him, or something. How dare you call him a bad kitty? He only took a bit of the chicken. And then for that, you haul him back in by tail and then pick him up and wrap him as though he were no better than one of the mice that he catches! And then you say that he’s going to get the trouble that comes with it! You can’t do anything to him. Let him go and leave him be!”

Whether it was her place or not to demand the cat’s freedom, Wren didn’t bother to think. Nothing could get her ire up faster and longer than the mistreatment of an animal and she particularly loved cats, of any shape or size. She was oblivious of the Cook’s evident dislike of this particular feline, nor had she been around long enough to know better than to get on her bad side. As for the Widow Rosebank, Wren was more inclined to speak sharply to the woman who’d given her something to worry about than not. So she stood staring up at the widow, a defiant and fierce light in her eyes - a look that did not often occupy Wren’s face.

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

Frór tried to ignore what happend around him and continued the conversation with Ibun and Farael.

How far away the Blue Mountains is, you ask. It is a good question, I for one is not sure. If I recall correctly, I saw a map where it seemed that there is the same distance to the ancient city of Tharabad and the mountains from this part of the Shire. It should however be a plesant jurney as it will mostley go through the Shire

It will be nice with a safe and plesant jurney. Frór thought to him self, remembering what dangers he had endured on his jurney from the Iron Hills to The Green Dragon.

Is it your first time traveling in this part of the world Frór asked Farael before taking a drink of his ale.

[Farael]

Farael thought to himself that Dwarves were loosing their sense of adventure, as he heard Fror talking. His trip to The Shire had been as nice and safe as ever, up until the time he happened to leave the group. Surely there would be someone with a sense of adventure in The Shire. He still remembered the tales he had been told about the brave Hobbits during The War and secretly, he was looking forward to meet one of those adventurous creatures. Still, he smiled at his companions "Well, I must admit that this is the first time I have traveled so far from home. I served in The King's Army for some time yet the farthest I went as a soldier was Rohan. My father's reputation kept me from going anywhere fun..." his voice trailed off as he became lost in his thoughts. "But here I am, far from home in this lovely country. I'm sure soon I'll meet a good hobbit and run off to have the best adventures of this time."

Farael caught a sideways glance from Ibun to Fror after his last comment. "I know you must be asked this a lot, but do you happen to know the Great Gimli? My father talked to him once, he always tells how marvelled he was as he never thought dwarves could be so smart!" He sudenly notices that his audience is composed of... dwarves. "But of course, now we all know better."

Blushing and biting his lower lip, Farael makes some silence and stares at his bowl.

[piosenniel]

Miz Rosebank’s laughter was infectious. Cook could feel her wet skirt clinging against her legs and her hair, when she’d fallen, had come all unloosed from its band and was standing out all about her head, she was sure. Miz Rosebank had the wriggling little demon rolled tight in her apron and tucked firmly beneath one arm. She was splashed from head to foot and looked a sight herself.

And there was Wren, in the midst of all, protesting with great vehemence the capture of the cat.

Cook tried to put on an authoritative look, which was all but gainsaid by the muffled giggles that began to explode in little bursts from her. Rose and Buttercup looked at one another, recalling the only other time they’d seen her in this state was at one of the big weddings held at the Inn . . . after which at the party, Miz Bunce had enjoyed a wee bit too much of the exquisite pear liqueur one of the old gran’s had made.

After a few moments of hysterical laughter followed by a number of deep breaths, Cook pushed back the hair from her face and asked for Buttercup to bring her an empty flour sack. The hissing little beast, still wrapped in the apron was soon deposited in the sack and the open end tied shut with a generous looping of twine. Cook motioned for Wren to step near, and handed the bagged kitty over to her.

‘Here . . . take him out of the Inn and set him free. At the end of the grounds would be preferable. Just so long as he’s out of my kitchen. She motioned for Ruby to hand over the chicken. ‘Can’t really be serving guests food that a cat’s had his mouth on, now, can I?’ She handed the slightly mauled chicken to Wren, too. ‘Go on now, you and the little culprit. Feed him somewheres far away and send the little blighter on his way.’

As Wren now had her little hands quite full, Ruby opened wide the back door of the kitchen for her . . .

[Koobdooga]

‘The Great Gimli! Is that how he’s known among Men?!’ Ibun chuckled at the thought. ‘We know him as Gimli, son of Gloin, son of Groin. Of the line of Durin. A well-traveled Dwarf and a gracious host to those who visitors to The Glittering Caves, so I am told.’ Ibun pushed his empty bowl from him and sat back in his chair, mug in hand. ‘He was originally from the Blue Mountains, you know. Where we’re bound.’ He lifted his mug toward Frór. ‘I wonder if the Dwarves there recall his family? I’m sure they must. And will they know a son of theirs is now deemed –The Great?’

Ibun could see Farael blushing. ‘Oh, I’m only poking fun at one of my own . . . not you, you must know. What Men and Dwarves might think of as ‘great’ is most likely different, I think; though, the contact with Men I’ve had is less than the fingers of my two hands. We do hold him in esteem for opening up another place for his folk – the Glittering Caves. And even greater is our respect for the commerce he has grown between his realm and that of Gondor.’ Ibun’s eyes held a merry glint in them. ‘We Dwarves are smart enough in our own way – especially when it comes to lining our pockets and chests with the fruits of others’ labors.’ He chuckled at his less than affirming assessment of both Dwarves and “others”.

‘To answer your question in a more straight-forward manner – no, I’ve not met Master Gimli. But I’ve heard that King Durin, the seventh in his line (May it never fail!), has invited the Lord of the Glittering Caves to see Khazad-dum as we have restored it so far. So, perhaps if he has not come already while I am gone, then I will set my eyes on him at a later time.’ He looked in a questioning manner at Farael.

‘Now, you said you soldiered in Rohan, yes? Did you visit Helm’s Deep there? Or venture into the Glittering Caves?’ Ibun nodded his head slightly at the thought of what wonders those caverns might have and how the Dwarves there now might have made them even more fair with their skills. ‘That is a place I should like to see before my bones rest beneath the mountains.’ He sighed and recalled himself to the present surroundings. ‘But first the task King Durin set me must be done, of course.’

Ibun’s mug was dry by the time he’d finished speaking. He poured himself another from the pitcher and topped off his companion’s cups. ‘And you, Master Farael, have you set yourself the task of finding those bandits you spoke of. Or does your adventuring spirit have some other quest in mind?’

[Pivli]

Violet sat sipping the small mug of cider Ruby had left for her. Her sharp, dark eyes darted over the rim at the three men with whom she and the two girls now sat.

The two cousins across the table from her seemed rather nice, though awkward a bit as young men just coming of age (or so she supposed) were likely to be. They were, in her mind, ‘promising prospects’ and Chubbs, to boot, a solid family. ‘Need a bit more growing on the vine,’ she thought to herself, ‘before they’re worth the plucking.’

Her eyes flicked left to the table’s host – Fordogrim Chubb. He had just finished talking about the evening’s festivities and his ales and lagers, and had managed to get in a leading comment concerning the dancing there was sure to be. Her thoughts applauded the fact he had a certain pride in his handiwork. ‘Sign of a man’ll go far in his business,’ she thought. But her tongue quietly tsk-tsk’d the way he looked at the lasses. He was sizing them up as he might baskets of barley and hops offered for his brewing.

Violet’s gaze darted to Lilly and Rose. ‘Now, what’s in their minds?’ she wondered, trying to read their faces.

[Farael]

"Well, my bearded friends," Farael said, smiling at the dwarves "Gimli son of Gloin fought brabely alongside The King. That alone is worth mentioning but he fought a war it was not his own. And he did save quite a few lifes. I can even tell you, there is this cousin of a friend of mine whose father swears saw Gimli save his friend's life just outside the walls of the city. And I'm afraid I never got to wander around Helm's Deep during my stay in Rohan. My father..." Farael stopped himself "let's just say I did not do any sight-seeing. Just remained in the city doing "guard duty"... guard duty? but there's not much to guard against, not in Rohan, not in Gondor!" He made silence, thinking how it was that once and again his father had interfered and kept him 'safe' when all he wanted was a little adventure. But now he was far from home and far enough that not even his father could reach him.

"And to answer your other question Master Dwarf, I lost the trail of those bandits two nights ago. I shall keep looking for them but I am also looking for any company that may need my skills on their quest, which ever that may be. I can defend myself with the sword and I am an excelent archer" He puffed up his chest while thinking about his archery skills. "If you will believe what I say about myself, of course" he added, although that token of modesty was clearly fake.

Farael stopped talking - at times it seemed he could talk without breathing- and took a good drink of his ale. Settling down a little and remembering the dwarves might not be all too interested in how he had outscored his captain on an archery contest during his time in the Gondor Army, he helped himself to some more Ale and asked, while filling the dwarve's mugs as well

"Don't mind me if I ask too much Ibun, you mentioned you were sent by your King on a certain task.... yet I can't recall if you said what this task may be"