The Golden Perch Inn

[Folwren]

Now this was a strange customer, indeed. He talked like a book, he did, and he looked like one, too, almost. Dick cast his eyes over the dishelved character, caked and stained as he was with mud and who knows what else. All the same, he was an elf, and no elf can look very bad even in the worst circumstances and he had the clear, keen eyes of his race, the strong, clean face and a fair voice.

“Now why would the Shire be in any great danger, sir?” Dick asked. He eyed the elf with doubt. But then he sighed and sat down opposite him. “Since there aren’t many customers yet and since it’s so early, I may as well tell you. . .”

And Dick began, in hobbit fashion, going on whatever rabbit trails presented themselves, to tell the elf warrior what had passed the previous two days. How the wolves were found in his own stable and driven out again by the hobbits there and some of the guests of the inn. And again yesterday, how some were discovered. And although it was not a great deal to tell, Dick took his time about it. At the end, he wound down the story as though it had been a long, epic tale.

“And so, good sir, there you have it. We have been attacked by these wild beasts. Perhaps you are right – perhaps we are in grave danger. Is there any way you can help us? We are not fighting folk, we hobbits, you know.”

[Gwathagor]

The solemn elf nodded slowly as his host, who was evidently the proprietor of the establishment, explained how the wolves had appeared in the East Farthing several days prior. It coincided far too well with the appearance of the wolf trail in the north to be mere coincidence. The hunt was finished, and now the battle would begin; likely today, or perhaps the day after. He only regretted that it had to happen here, in this peaceful country. The wounds will heal quickly, he thought, as he looked away from the hobbit, and out the window across the rolling hills and fields. There is a quiet, merry strength here; it is not obvious, but it is deep. The hobbit had just finished speaking.

"We are not fighting folk, we hobbits, you know.”

The elf stiffened. He became alert, his head high, his eyes unseeing as he concentrated, listening. There it was again. Somebody crying for-.

Before the astonished hobbit, he leapt up, knocking his chair over. "Do you hear it?", he asked, in a voice that was tense and dreadfully in earnest. "A cry for help - that way - north!", facing back towards the door of the inn. "They have come again."

His hand went instinctively to his sword belt, where it found the sheath empty. "My sword!", he cried. The light of battle was in his eyes. He paused and looked back at the hobbit; then in a swift motion he seized the jug of ale from which the hobbit had filled his tankard, emptied it in a long draft, and cast it back upon the table. "Advance payment," he explained. "Come friend, there are enemies to be met!" And he sprang out of the door, his cloak rippling behind him as he rushed like a mad wind for the hill where his sword still quivered hilt deep in the turf, eagerly awaiting its master's hands. This was not a blithe summer breeze. The wrath of this wind carried the foreboding of blood: before it and behind it and with it.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Gentle sound of clacking hooves echoed in the silent air above the Stock Road. Oak and elm trees lining the road quietly whispered in the morning breeze. The early rays of sunlight were shining through the roof of leaves and through tiny holes in Rory's straw hat. The hobbit carter was sitting cross-legged on the rack of his old wooden waggon, while the sorrel pony slowly pulled them towards their destination. It was the first time for the animal to ride through this road, but his owner has been many times through this part of the Shire; either to visit his relatives in Buckland or to deliver a package to some of the hobbits who lived near Brandywine.

Rory Brandybuck was a carter. Carrying goods, news, letters or even hobbit passengers from one part of the South- or Eastfarthing to another was his job. He liked travelling, he liked the smell of fresh air and fresh news in each of the places he visited. Arny Sandburrow, one of the Shiriffs in South Farthing used to say that Rory is more of a Shiriff than him, for he knows about everything that happens between the River and the Downs. Maybe Arny was exaggerating a little bit here, but in the end, he always was. In one thing he was correct, though: Rory Brandybuck of Pincup was the kind of hobbit who sought, listened to and remembered every rumour that he could stumble upon during his journeys. And in turn, whoever appeared in his vicinity had the possibility to hear what the vocal carter experienced, saw, or heard of; for if there was anything from what Rory could not be prevented, it was recounting his rumours to everyone who was around, even if they did not care about his stories at all. And if he had no person to listen to him, the carter spoke at least to his pony, Buttercup. Like now.

"We have a nice day, Buttercup," he said to his companion, who obediently pulled the waggon and obediently listened to his master's voice. "Keep going. This is good weather and a good road." The pony noddled, as if he agreed with the words. The carter did not seem to care. "You know what the Tooks did?" he continued in his semi-monologue. "They paved the road from Tookbank to Waymoot. Well yes, the Thain himself gave quite a lot of money for that. The next time we go to Whitwell, we don't need to worry about getting stuck somewhere in the fields as the last time. But it took them long. This road is better. Even when it gets wet, the water may drain away to the fields. All roads in this part of the Shire are built like that. Well, most of them."

Rory stopped for a moment and listened. It seemed to him as if he heard something far, far away, a sound that did not belong to this place. But maybe he was mistaken.

"It's nothing, Buttercup," he said to the pony, who did not care at all and pulled the waggon. "Well, what was I saying. Never mind. We must be near the Stock now. Andy said one of his cousins will be moving there. That's the one who was supposed to marry that Took who was, wait, the Thain's... hmm... second cousin? Yes, that must be him. Paladin was his name. Well, he is marrying someone else, you see. One of the Banks. Ah, here we are."

The waggon slowly steered into the village. The Stock was still half asleep, though several figures could be recognised moving among and around the low houses. Rory looked around, not willing to drive right through the village. There he saw it - the familiar sign. As if he knew the intentions of his master, the pony turned towards the inn, slowing down; and finally he stopped near the entrance. Rory jumped down from the rack, raising dust as his large hairy feet hit the ground. Not caring about mote embedding on the front of his white shirt, he turned and started unharnessing the pony. He shot a lothing look towards the stables. "There's no need to bother the ostler, Buttercup," he spoke towards the pony. "Go and find your own graze while I have mine. Just don't eat any farmer's cabbage like the last time." With these words, he left the pony and the ladden waggon alone and walked to the door.

"Good morning!" he sang out upon entering. He turned to face the bar and smiled at the innkeeper. "I come a long way," he said. "But I thought that a dip of the best beer in the Eastfarthing could refresh me a little." A coin clinked against the bar. "Belive it or not, but in Deephallow, they once served the Master of Buckland water instead of beer. He was there on a visit, you see. But it was late in the evening and the Master was so tired after the journey that he did not even notice!" Rory smiled once again, showing his pearl-white teeth. "But don't count on that with me. I have a long journey ahead still, and I can tell beer from water." He turned to overlook the room. "How's the business going? I heard that in Woodhall, they had to close their Inn for awhile, because the locals did not have time to visit it for a month! Imagine that! But I hope this is not your case," he said, turning back to the host.

[Forest Elf]

Gable swung the branch down just as a little too early. The wolf’s jaws opened and came around the branch, ripping it out of her grip. She kicked the wolf down to the ground, nearly loosing her balance as she did so. She pulled her foot back up before the other wolves would be able to reach it. She stood on the branch and, in grabbing the branches above her, pulled her feet up off of the branch, and shouted for help a little louder.

She closed her eyes and began praying for help. She knew that the wolves would start leaping once she put her feet back onto the branch. The bark dug into her hands and she knew that she couldn’t keep her grip forever. Even with closed eyes she could still feel the tears in them. She opened them and saw an elf she’d never met before rushing over. She just hoped that he would hurry when she looked down and saw the wolves leaping up at the branch as she placed her foot back on it, to help keep all of the weight off of her hands.

[Gwathagor]

He halted atop the hill. His sword was still there, stuck in the grass. As his hands grasped the hilt of the ancient sword, he breathed deep and relaxed; but only for a moment. Then he turned west, towards the cries for help. There, about a hundred yards away, on the lower slopes of the hill, a pack of four or five wolves circled and leapt about a lone walnut tree. Among the lower branches of the tree, he could distinguish a pair of feet which kicked and swung about, trying to avoid the wolves' snapping jaws. Just then, the figure slipped down, abruptly, nearly falling out of the tree. As it did so, the warrior elf got a better look at the wolves' quarry, which barely managed to pull itself up out of reach of the predators.

An elf! In the Shire, too, he thought in surprise. I have been gone a very long time.

Slowly he pulled the sword out of the dirt. It was still bright and shone with the light of the morning sun. Then, quickly as he had stopped, he began to run again, raising the sword high as he closed in upon the wolves.

The other elf's cries grew increasingly frequent and desperate, as the wolves leapt higher and closer, driven into a frenzy by their lust for blood. They were lean and their fur was matted, but their eyes burned blue with an unnatural fury.

And then, with a great cry in some unknown tongue, he was upon them. The warrior elf and his sword tore through their midst in a whirlwind of fury that surpassed even that of the starving wolves. His first blow severed the head a wolf which had seized in its jaws the branch upon which their prey stood, and hung upon it, pulling it lower. His second blow opened a gaping wound in the side of the largest creature, and a third wolf, which wheeled to face this new foe found itself impaled upon the long, cold, unforgiving steel. Without pausing or losing his momentum, the tall elf with the sword spun, pulled his weapon free, and flattened a fourth wolf to the ground with a high arc that landed between the beast's shoulder blades. The fifth and last wolf sprang at him, and he turned back again, pulling the last reserves of his strength into a mighty blow that caught the monster in mid-air and hurled it into the trunk of the walnut tree, ten feet away. The lifeless corpse fell solidly to the ground, as its blood seeped out over the crushed walnut shells and stained the green grass. The tall elf sheathed his sword and fell to one knee amid the settling dust, breathing heavily.

[Folwren]

Dick responded to the hobbit’s request for beer immediately. He nodded his head quietly as the hobbit went on telling him about ... what? The innkeeper looked up. Who gave the Master of Buckland water instead of beer? An amused grin spread across his face as he turned back to the tap and finished off the mug.

“How’s the business going?” the newcomer asked, turning to look about the empty common room. “I heard that in Woodhall, they had to close their Inn for a while, because the locals did not have time to visit it for a month! Imagine that! But I hope this is not your case.” He turned again to face Dick just as the innkeeper was setting the mug on the counter and picking up the coin.

“Business has been good,” Dick replied. “Lot’s of people passing through Stock nowadays. We have staying in the inn a Dwarf, even! And a couple elves. We have daily customers, too, from Stock. I’m not about to close the ol’ Perch anytime soon.

“Where’re you from, Mr....?”

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

"Brandybuck, Rory," the customer replied, picking up the mug. "I come from Pincup. I suppose you know where that is. A great place. My parents moved there after their marriage, when my mother's grand-uncle died, leaving them that wonderful smial. Yes, my grand-uncle, that must have been a hobbit! Rorimac Banks was his name. I was named after him, you see. My mother was his favourite grand-niece. She always visited him in that big, empty smial when all the relatives moved away... so, he left it to her."

Rory interrupted the recital of his family's history to take a drop from the mug. The cold beer for a moment choked off the stream of his words and sudden silence fell upon the common room.

"Well," the guest said after a while, wiping his lips, "this must be indeed the best beer in the Easfarthing. I have to stop here more often. I am a carter, you see - but usually my business does not lead me to these parts of the Shire." He looked about. "It's good to see that business is going well for you. You said, there is a dwarf and elves in here? Even? Unbelievable, I have to tell that in Willowbottom - they once had a Big Man there, wandering around, but elves! Are they not a little bit... hmm... strange? And where are they, anyway?" Rory suddenly turned and walking through the room to the door on its other end, before the innkeeper could react, he opened them and glanced over the hallway leading deeper into the hill. "Nice," he commented, turning back without closing the door. "In Tuckborough, they have some very beautiful smials. I once visited the Thain himself, had to deliver something to him from the Hornblowers. You won't believe how big, big hallway he has in the smial where he stays during summer. This whole room could fit into it, really."

"But you know," he continued quickly, "maybe you could make this place a little bit more... cosy. Look at that wall, for example," he pointed at the wall opposite to the bar. "It could be decorated with something... and that hallway over there," he pointed towards the opened door, "could be painted yellow and lilac. It would be nice. I could get you someone to do that if you don't have anyone. I know plenty of people." He handed the empty mug to the innkeeper to get it refilled.