The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Kransha]

As old and as withered of bone and form as Osric of Aldburg was, still he plunged wholeheartedly into the meal set before him on a polished platter. After the dragging length of a minute’s span had passed, he reared up like a braying steed from the plate, letting it vibrate meagerly as he slammed a satisfied fist on the table and fell back, sagging fully backward into the cradling palm of his seat. He sighed gently, scratching the clinging strands of foot from his unkempt beard with a hand wrapped loosely in a leathery, fur-cuffed glove. He extracted each of his gnarled digits from the glove and pulled it off smoothly, laying it on the table top as, with his other fidgeting hand, he lifted the quivering tin tankard from beside his empty plate and raised it to his lips. He sipped it with nobility at first, but soon began to guzzle the tasteful fluid, letting it spill into his mouth and wash away the troubles of his sore, ragged throat. His tongue burst out from the wall of his teeth to lick up every last residual dot of the morning ale that might have alighted on his beard, but found none, hearing his soft breath well up and grow in volume ominously inside the tankard before him.

New arrivals had come, which was only to be expected upon another day of regal festivities. Osric’s face puffed out into a glowing smile as strands of people began to drift like smoke through the ready and ever-full doorway of the Horse. He searched the room wistfully, his dry lips drifting apart as he was lulled into a calming stupor while looking about. He saw men, young and old, some who’d seen barely the number of cold winters to be called a young man, vivacious boys and girls frolicking through the inn and those whose playful tones, high of pitch and with a fervent melody within, could be heard seeping through the windows and door. There were aged folk as well, who’d all taken their respective places in the room. There were only a few, and one in particular, who was staring out with a blanker look, who caught the brunt of Osric’s drowsy gaze, but he shook off a remorseful look and continued in his optical business in the Horse.

Osric at last let his eyelids droop after fixating his gaze on the Horse’s threshold and staring profusely at it for a time. His aged eyes, turning in unison, bobbed up and down as he scanned every surface in the common room, analyzing his surrounding through a blurred vision, tinted with a colorful lens set over each deep orb by the impending festivities and the decorations they entailed. Pushing himself up from his chair, his stiff leg arching uncomfortably beneath him as he dragged it over so he could stand, wobbling before he regained his stock steadiness, he began walking through the room. At last he found his needed target, the innkeeper, Alywen. He fitted towards her with as much speed as his rusty, manually maneuvered limb would allow him and waited for her to turn and see him. Despite the possible chaos of the day ahead, she seemed flawlessly serene. Osric did not know the ways on innkeepers, guessing that this calmness might be some clever façade, but he did not guess at the methods of Miss Alywen, for he thought his mind would spend too many needed hours trying to accurately decipher the matter.

“Good morning, Mistress Alywen,” he said politely, loosing a curt bow before he continued, “I trust you slept well?” She looked at him, grinning mildly with that same calm, respectable, but gentle air that she always had held when Osric spoke to her, and replied with jovial dignity while Osric looked on, wondering how she held up such a composed stature when the world around her was so hectic, “As well as can be expected on such a night, I suppose. And you?”

“The same, madam.” Osric nodded dutifully. He paused for a bare moment and then rolled back into speaking in a lazy, tired drawl manufactured by the resonating tranquility of morning as it was slowly washed away by surrounding hustle and bustle, “Alywen, I do believe I saw that lad Hearpwine here this morning, but now I see him not. Has he already headed off to ‘scope out the competition’?”

Alywen glanced at him again as she’d been about to turn away, seeing from his unattended face that he’d already eaten and did not require her service. A look appeared slowly but with delicate swiftness upon her features, which told Osric that this was not the first time the question had been posed that day. But, she bore it easily and smiled in response as she spoke. “Indeed he has, but he will return and we will all surely hear more of him, and from him as well.”

“Oh,” the aged Rohirrim nodded in understanding, “I had suspected as much.” He turned from her, having known the answer before it was spoken to his query. He admitted with some vague reluctance that he still yearned with a thundering hope to hear the songs and lays of Hearpwine and Liornung, the two bards who’d left for to seek a future. If the job was found by either of them, that would mean their continual stay in Edoras, and frequent trips to the White Horse Inn, where Osric would be sitting, perhaps a pipe cupped in his mouth and a tune on his lips to wile away the time until one of them had mustered the vocal energy to delve into the musical realm again. Thinking merrily of such things, Osric returned to his chair and set himself down carefully upon it, leaning back and taking a deep breath as his chest heaved.

[ArwenBaggins]

Reya sat the cup down on the table a turned to the newcomer, motioning that she have a seat. "Pleasure to meet you Frodides. I'm Reya; I saw that you and your children have met my daughter Dela," as Frodides sat on the bench across the table, Reya continued politely, "Your children are quiet cute," she smiled and looked over to the children, wiping a lingering tear off of her face.

Dela contently put another sweet into her mouth, looking over to Gomen. She saw the slobbering baby and caressed his hand. "Gomen, watcha brother's name?" rubbing her damp brown eyes on the sleeve of her blouse, she looked at the smiling baby boy.

"His name's Drihten," Gomen answered, fingering his golden curls.

The girl then turned to Motan and Mereflod, reaching into the pocket of her oversized apron. She pulled out a large maroon tulip and a white daisy. "I picked these this morning, out of my Pa...Pap...Papa's garden. Here, you can have them," again, she tried not to cry as she mentioned her father. She wanted the girls to have the flowers, and hoped they didn't take it the wrong way. "They're really pretty, but I's gotta lot of 'em, so it's okay if I give you two one. Oh, and you can call me Dela; my long name is Delaynn, but my Mommy calls me that."

[Saraphim]

Strenge shivered as he looked around from his seat in one corner of the common room. He was wrapped tightly in a thick cloak, and had a steaming cup of tea in his hand, but that barely stymied the cold air from seeping into his skin. His headache had mostly vanished, but his eyes would swim if he looked around too quickly.

At long last, someone brough him a warm plate piled full of delicious amenities. Strenge dug in quickly, trying to soak in as much heat from the warm food as he could.

Over his spoon, he watched the customers meander about on thier early-morning chores. He would have liked to strike up converstion with one of them, but Strenge was much too shy to introduce himself.

He wondered where Careardry was again, but decided that he must still have been sleeping.

He finished his meal and leaned back with his tea, finally beginning to warm up.

[Nurumaiel]

Frodides saw the tear but said nothing. She felt the way her children did; she would not make the woman obligated to tell the cause of her sorrow. Rather, she replied to the compliment with a face full of pride. "Indeed, aren't they lovely?" she said. "Oh, I suppose you think it is awful of me to say thus... a mother should not accept praise to her children without making some attempt at modesty, but I would rather appear proud and vain than tell a lie. I am proud of my children and I do think they're lovely. I tell them so often... but never in a fashion that would make them vain." She let her eyes wander to her children, and she gazed at them contentedly for a moment before speaking again. "Your daughter is also lovely. What is her name?"

Over in the group of children, Motan and Mereflod were delighting over the flowers and helping each other to place them in their long golden hair. When both were satisfied, Mereflod turned to Delaynn, saying, "Your Papa has a garden?" She spoke in an entirely oblivious way; she didn't know what Dela had just learned about her father. "My Papa doesn't have a garden because he works in the stable. I would like to have a garden, though."

Motan put another delicious sweet in her mouth, her round face very thoughtful. "Well, Mereflod, maybe you should ask Miss Aylwen if we can have our own garden. Maybe Delaynn will help us with it. Maybe I should ask Miss Bethberry if we're going to have lessons today." She ceased to speak her wandering thoughts full of 'maybe's', but did not cease to think them. She hoped they would have lessons that day, because she dearly loved lessons. Standing up, she put the remainder of her candy in her pocket and pattered over to Bethberry, tugging her sleeve. The woman looked down, and a kind light kindled in her eye as she surveyed the innocent little girl. "Miss Bethberry, are we to have lessons today?"

Mereflod had also slid off her chair and had gone to Aylwen, who had been speaking with that old man that had been talking with her uncle the day before. Now, however, Aylwen was not occupied and Mereflod did not have to fear of interrupting any conversation. "Aylwen," she said with complete and trusting confidence, "might Motan and I have a little garden to plant flowers in? Dela over there gave us these flowers - " she touched the flower in her hair " - and said they were out of her Papa's garden. Our Papa doesn't have a garden, but maybe we could have one. Would it be all right?"

Gomen was watching Dela with a friendly smile as the little girl tickled Drihten's toes, delighting in his hearty chuckles. He held the baby out to her. "Would you like to hold him, Dela?" he questioned.

[Snowdog]

The midsummer sun was well above the horizon when Hanasían arose. He had been staying at the White Horse off and on since the spring, and had been recording the deeds of those who fought in the war. His room was a cluttered collections of rolled scrolls, parchments, cloths, and other writing supplies he had gained. This Inn was his preferred place to sleep, though he would frequent some of the other Inns about town regularly to find other vets whose story needed to be told.

Last night he had gone about with his twin cousins, Frea and Folca, and they managed to put away a good amount of Snowbourne Stout in the process of the telling of tales of the Battles of the Fords of Isen with some other vets. Hanasían pulled a deep green under shirt, ragged strings hanging from where the arm caps had been, and donned his customary black leather pants and boots, and looked about for the parchments he had wrote out the night before. Finding them in the corner of his room quite crumpled. He looked at one and crumpled his face.

'That will need deciphering.'

Hanasían mumbled to himself, apalled at his slurred, mixed Rohirric and Sindarin script he used the night before. Snowbourne Stout had that way with it when one imbibed too well in its smooth, peaty demeanor. He did manage to find his way back to the White Horse and his room, but he had no idea what became of his cousins. Frea he didn't worry about, but Folca... he had not been right in the head since being clubbed by that Uruk at the Fords. He was fortunate to have lived really, only being saved because of Frea's diligence in getting him out of further harms way and back to Helms Deep. Folca was missing a hand, and spear wounds he had in his side, shoulder, and thigh. He healed pretty well physically, having learned to get by with the one hand, and only a slight limp to speak of. Some say this was due to the healing hand and lore of Hanasian's Dúnedain Chieftain that had come to Rohan by strange ways that are spoken of much elsewhere. But of Folca, he wasn't quite right, and he wouls sufferspells of seizures, or would talk seeming nonsense suddenly only m,aking sense to himself, and seemed to be slowly withdrawing into himself. But it was good last night, and he was laughing and talking well with the help of the ale.

Hanasian hoped they went on well last night, and he stowed his writings of the night before and left his room. He was met not far outside the door by running children, and he danced and dodged them as they sped down the hallway. Hanasian smiled at the growth of new life, mostly unmarred by the war and the events that led up to it. He rubbed his dry eyes and came into the common roon, bustling with the days faire, and he made way to his chair in the near corner.

It was a place he found empty the first day he had arrived, and it seemed to have been granted as 'his place' though he had not really gotten to know too many folk over the last few months. But it was noted that this day he had not rought any of his writing utinsils, and looking rather worse for wear from the night's activities, he only wanted some tea and maybe some breakfast.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine neared the White Horse in a state of high relief. It had been weeks since his master had last given him the freedom of a day and he already knew what he was going to do with it. First order of the day was some sleep. He did not normally sleep well with the sun in the sky, but his exhaustion was such that he knew he could doze away what remained of the morning with ease. After a hearty lunch he would wander the fields about Edoras and stretch his legs somewhat. He toyed with the idea of inviting Mae to accompany him, for he was not by nature solitary, but he immediately realised how such an invitation would be perceived by others – and he was painfully aware of how Mae herself might take it. His studies had kept him away from Mae in the last months, but in that time there had grown between them a warm regard, much like that of brother and sister. He was only a few years older than she, but he felt as though he were her elder. He had not seen much of the world, but he had seen more than she; what was more, as a young man of noble lineage he had enjoyed freedoms that were not available to a serving lass. He sighed somewhat at the thought of the disparities between them. Perhaps if he invited Gomen to accompany him on his walk first, he could then ask Mae without setting any tongues wagging.

Even as he thought this he heard the young man’s voice coming from the stable so he passed into its shadows to find Gomen and his father hard at work. Leofan greeted him cordially, but Hearpwine caught the note of reserve in his voice. Here was one, at least, who thought that Hearpwine’s affections toward Mae were more than filial. He hoped that what he was about to suggest might alleviate those concerns. “Good day Leofan,” he replied courteously. “I have come to seek Gomen, to see if he would like to join me in a walk this afternoon. I have been given my liberty this day and I would fain stretch my legs in the fields about Edoras.” Gomen immediately began to beg his father’s leave to join the bard, but Leofan only scowled and said that he would speak with Gomen about this further. “Very well,” Hearpwine replied, trying not to let his disappointment show. “I shall await your decision.” He decided that now would not be the best time to inquire if Mae could accompany him as well.

He looked in on Hrothgar before leaving the stables, making sure that his friend was comfortably stalled and fed (as always, he was both). As he made his way across the yard to the Inn, he heard a familiar voice come through the door, and even as he came over the threshold he was calling out “Osric! My old friend, how happy I am to see you! You went away ere you had the chance to tell me your full story so that I might set it to song!” As he spoke, he saw the young man who was apparently the old soldier’s companion. Hearpwine moved forward to introduce himself, but his attention was immediately caught by the sight of two more old acquaintances: his fellow bard Asad and his grandmother were at the Inn, for what purpose he could not guess. He called out to them as well. There were several strangers at the Inn, including an unusually large number of children. At the sight of him, several of the younger ones – Hearpwine had never been very good at remembering small children so he was not sure whose they were – called out to him for a jolly song. Hearpwine’s heart sank at the request even as he fought to keep a smile upon his face. He had rushed home with only sleep in his thoughts, but here was the Inn full of old friends and new audiences demanding his attention! He looked about, desperate for some polite way to extricate himself from the children, and his eye fell upon Hanasian. The Ranger, normally so alert and keen, as were all the folk of his race, looked as though he had been stomped on (repeatedly) by a troll with a very bad temper. “My friend,” Hearpwine called out to him, “whatever could be the matter with you? Why look you so ill?” He turned to the children, explaining, “I would sing you all a song, but yon Ranger is apparently in some desperate state. I will see to him first, and then we shall see about some entertainments.” He pulled himself free of the clinging hands and moved toward the table in the corner that had, by common consent of those at the Inn, become the Ranger’s reserved seat. Taking the seat opposite, he asked. “Whatever is the matter, friend? Is it an ailment of heart and limb – or is it the result of some excess that you now regret?” As he said this he smiled knowingly.

[Snowdog]

The bard took a seat as Hanasían smiled at his words.

'Regrets are only spent on that which could have been. If it was some back-barn Rohirric swill then yes it would have bene regrettable, but there be Hobbit-lore in the making of Snowbourne!'

Hanasían chuckled at the fact that an aquaintance of Meriadoc's from the Green Dragon, Hobs Burrowes, had come down to try his brewcraft with Shire hops grown in the highlands around Rohan. Old Eorly partnered with him, and Frea threw in some of his war pension as investment in the venture. Surely a halfling brewmaster would actually teach the old man how to brew a good beer, and last fall's harvest was the first of the Shire hops and he and Hobs worked through the winter to perfect their product.

Hanasían looked at Hearpwine and noted the fatigue on his face and went on,

' No ailment unlooked for grips me now, for it is sometimes hard to get the telling of the Fords out of some, being it was a losing battle. Yet it did buy time...'

Hanasían wondered if the celebrated bard wanted to hear of his old war stories, and so he turned the table back on him.

'You appear to be a victim of burning a short candle at both ends yourself eh.'

Hearpwine yawned while Hanasían spoke.

The door opened and Frea came in, looking fine on the summe rday. Does the brew not ever affect him? He saw Hanasían, but looked over the common room intently. Hanasían knew he was looking for Folca...


Meanwhile, behind the stables in some hay droppings, Folca lay snoozing the morning away.

[Nurumaiel]

Gomen turned pleading eyes to his father as Hearpwine left the stable. Leofan studied him thoughtfully. He knew how much Gomen valued spending time with Hearpwine the Bard. He did not doubt that one day the lad would also take up an instrument and sing before many. He did not cast aside the idea and he intended to let his son follow whatever path he chose, but he could not deny that he felt a pain of regret that his eldest would not help him in the stables. It was not the feeling that he would his son to take up the task of the family for ages past, but that he enjoyed the boy's company and would miss him when the road called. "Son, you know I need your help in the stable," he said softly.

Gomen bowed his head and nodded, "Yes, Papa."

That was his mother. From the first she had been very diligent in teaching her children obedience as a foundation for all other attributes. Gomen had learned this lessons now and showed it so as he humbly submitted to his father's will. Yet the disappointment was clear on his face and Leofan could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. If he considered it, he liked Hearpwine well enough. He often visited his horse in the stables and Leofan had grown accustomed to his face and ways. When the young man had first arrived at the Inn Leofan had had his doubts, especially when he noticed the attentions being played to his eldest daughter, but Liornung had spoken well of the lad and it seemed now that Hearpwine and Maercwen merely considered each other as good friends. Now he would not even mind if Hearpwine did start openly courting his daughter, for she was now a little older and with the attentions of many young men about the Inn she would be more able to discern if she were really in love with one or if she were merely swept off her feet.

He did not dislike Hearpwine. And under normal circumstances he would not care if Gomen went out with him. But Gomen had already been out riding that morning and had left much work undone. If he let him go now the work would continue to grow. Yet could he not make this sacrifice for his son, who so obviously desired to go? It was not often that Hearpwine had time to spare about the Inn; he was almost all day at the Hall with Master Eorcyn. It would not happen every day. An exception can be made. "You may go," he said. Gomen straightened up, his eyes shining. He lingered just a little while to thank his father before hurrying to the Inn.

He found Hearpwine sitting by Hanasían, a man who had come often to the Inn during the spring and early summer days. Gomen had never officially made his acquaintance but they would sometimes exchange passing words. He lurked restlessly in background of the conversation, unwilling to interrupt but eager to tell Hearpwine of the permission. He was relieved when Maercwen came out of the kitchen, drying soap-covered hands on her now rather dirtied white apron. She would know how to tactfully break into the conversation.

She was stooping down in front of Motan and Mereflod, laughing in delight and touching the flowers that crowned their golden hair. She was such a dependable older sister. She was so very friendly to everyone and knew exactly how to act in every situation. Gomen gazed at her admiringly. There were times he could almost believe his sister was the kindest person on earth, but before he could tell himself it was so he remembered his mother.

"Maercwen, Papa said I could go out walking with Hearpwine," said Gomen. She seemed pleased at this, and expressed surprise that Hearpwine was back so early. "But Hearpwine is talking with Hanasían and I fear of being rude if I break into their conversation," the lad continued.

Maercwen put a hand on his head and smiled. "So you want me to do it for you?" she said. She ran her fingers once through his hair and nodded. "Very well," she said. "It's very simple, if you watch." She began to move towards Hearpwine but paused to speak once again with her brother. "I know how much you value your time with Hearpwine," she said, "and I am glad Papa does not discourage you." She said nothing more. She had never told Gomen directly that she expected him to be a bard, but she knew he wanted to and said as much as she could without referring clearly to it.

Gomen watched in amazement as Maercwen politely interrupted the conversation, with grace and charm, notifying Hearpwine in one short sentence that Gomen had obtained his father's permission and then, after begging their pardon for interrupting once again, withdrawing with just as much grace and ease. Gomen thanked her heartily and then cast anxious eyes towards Hearpwine. "I hope he doesn't change his mind," he said in concern. "I was looking forward to it."

"He won't change his mind," said Maercwen, without the faintest hint of laughter at his concerns. Mother never laughed when he was afraid, either. "Just give him a little time to finish speaking with Hanasían. Now I must go hustle Motan and Mereflod into the kitchen to Mamma. She's been wanting them to give her some assistance." She patted her brother's shoulder gently. "Have fun on your little adventure," she said, "and work hard for Papa when you get back."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine watched Mae return to Gomen with the good news that he had not forgotten his offer in the time it had taken him to walk from the stables. He smiled at the boy, wondering why he was standing about so anxiously, and then it came to him Oh dear, Gomen thinks that I meant to go walking immediately, and not after a few hours of much needed rest! His heart fell at the realisation, but his aspect showed only friendly warmth to the lad. “Gomen,” he called out as heartily as he could, “be a good lad and fetch me my walking stave from my room. We’ll have need of it if we are to tackle the eastern hills!” The boy’s eyes sparkled and he ran off to seek what Hearpwine had asked. Mae was moving away as Hearpwine spoke to her brother, so he had to raise his voice to be heard. He affected as much nonchalance as he could as he asked the maid if she wished to join he and her brother in their walk. She paused in her step and looked at him with that maddeningly pretty expression of mild shock and embarrassment and his heart warmed to her all the more. She is comely he admitted, comely and merry, but she is too young at heart to know the full feeling of admiration for a man – she is concerned with boys still. He smiled at her, silently wishing for her a boy who would suit her – and be worthy of her.

Mae made a non-committal noise and quickly left for the kitchen. Whether she intended to join him and Gomen or not he did not know. Shrugging, and laughing slightly under his breath, Hearpwine turned back to Hanasían who was looking a little better for the tea he was drinking. Hearpwine drank off another quaff of the brew himself and then poured out another mug, being sure to add a great quantity of honey to sweeten it. As he sipped this more slowly he returned to his conversation with the Ranger. “Ay, I have been – what did you call it? – ‘burning the candle at both ends’.” He laughed heartily at the image. “An apt expression, and one that I’ve not heard before. Is it from your land in the North?”

Hanasían smiled weakly through his headache. “No,” he replied. “Well, not precisely. It is from the north, and it is from a land that I consider as dear as any other. For many years did my folk protect the land of the Halflings, and while we may have received little recognition or thanks, we were able to add to our own language many items from the great storehouse of words of the little folk!”

“So you are familiar with the land of Shire?” Hearpwine asked eagerly. “I have never been there myself, and I have only met a Halfling once, and that was all too briefly. Still, if I could have chosen to meet only one Halfing it would have been the very one whose hand I had the honour to shake: Samwise Gamgee himself. Samwise the Stouthearted, who bore his master and friend Frodo of the Nine Fingers up the very slopes of Mount Doom to the dismay and downfall of the Enemy. Long have I desired to fit that tale to music, but I have never yet found words worthy of their deed! But tell me, do you know much of the Shire? And have you met any of the Halflings who came from the north to disturb the counsels of the great?”

[Alaksoron]

Korik reined in his gray stallion before the stately Inn. The sign above the door, swinging slightly in the breeze, read 'The White Horse'. A good name, he thought idly as he walked his horse toward the stables. A stableboy stepped forward to take the reins, but Korik waved him away. 'Storm would likely trample the scrawny creature' Korik thought wistfully.

Korik stalled the prancing stallion himself, after curtly informing a farrier and a stablegroom he would care for his own horse tonight. Strange, after riding hard nearly all day, Storm still seemed eager to run. Sometimes the gray's stamina really did astound him.

Gently Korik removed Storm's saddle, draping a fresh blanket over his back. Then he drew a smooth horse brush from his saddlebags and set to sheening Storm's glossy coat, paying careful attention to the contours of his body. A good horse, deep chested, with powerful hindlegs. Next Korik massaged around the stallion's forelocks and ankles like a true expert equestrian. Straightening, he stroked Storm's neck to calm him and fed him an apple, murmuring softly to him all the time.

Finally, Korik made his way to the inn, thinking how much he needed a washing himself. A good bath, an ale, and a warm bed. He opened the door.

The smell of food wafted from the kitchens and smacked him in the face, enticing his nose. His mouth very nearly watered. Perhaps he could add a meal to that short list. There was no manservant to take his cloak, so he just held on to it. Few gave the sword at his hip a second glance. He wore it well. It looked as if it belonged there.

He made his way to the apparent innkeeper, very obviously in charge. A very capable woman, it seemed. He introduced himself and emptied a small leather purse into her hand. Two dozen gold coins spilled into her palm, each as thick as your palm. Then he gave her her instructions. Warm water in a copper tub for a bath, with plenty of privacy. A room reserved for the night. A glass of ale and some roast chicken when he came down from his bath. With that, he took his bag to his room and went to bathe.

[Alaksoron]

Korik felt considerably refreshed after his bath. He drug a comb through his shoulder length hair and donned a black silk coat, buttoned to the throat and neatly pressed. Buckling his swordbelt over his coat, he went downstairs.

He had a seat at a corner table. Once he sat down, his dinner was promptly brought him. 'Still warm', he exulted wryly. He finished quickly, but he refrained from getting seconds. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he ordered another ale. That he drained at one gulp.

He strode to the innkeeper and smiled "Would you kindly allow me too play my flute in your Common Room?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen smiled warmly to the newcomer, and the prospect of new entertainment pleased her. "You are quite welcome to play whatever you wish in this inn, sir. It would be refreshing to hear new music and the sounds of a flute." Aylwen replied, gesturing with a sweep of her right arm to the entire Common Room. Politely excusing herself with a silent nod she proceeded to remove his cleaned plate and his two emptied mugs.

Morning had long gone, and noon quickly passed into late afternoon. The shadows changed directions, lengthened, and stretched to fit the needs of the bright sunlight. Aylwen set the dirty dishes down in the kitchen, looking out on the horizon in the window for a moment before turning away and returning to the Common Room.

-

Waiting did not come easy for It. On several occasions It had to keep Its companions from moving in haste or becoming impatient. They would eat, and it would be very soon.

Shaggy hair covered a strong, muscular body. A nose perfect for smelling prey was set about constantly barred teeth. Eyes meant for seeing in the darkness of night twinkled in the swiftly fading light. When they could sense the coming of night, It took the first daring step over a rushing creek, and the first step towards the quaint Inn that housed so many patrons and innocents.

Darkness would fall, and then they would have their meal.

[littlemanpoet]

After Eodwine had made the acquaintances of elf, old man and young man, he excused himself for food and drink. How had the day already worn to noontime? Apparently, his report at Meduseld had taken longer than he had thought!

He was served porridge and good East Emnet Ale, and made quick work of both. Ready to ask for seconds, he noticed a young man come in from an inside door, from the guest rooms, which Eodwine knew from memory. The man sat down at a corner table and enjoyed his meal in silence. Eodwine let the man finish and was about to go and offer greeting when he he overheard the man's conversation with Aylwen.

The man's name was Korik and he could play the flute! The flute was a Gondorian musical instrument known mostly among the nobility, a rather fancy piece of equipment held to the side. Eodwine was more familiar with the wood pipe and other such countrified instruments, played out in front. He walked over to the man named Korik.

"I greet you, Korik. I am Master Eodwine of the Gap." Eodwine offered his hand.

Korik stood and amiably returned his hand and greeting.

"Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I overheard that you play the flute. I play the lyre. Perhaps we could match tune to tune at whiles this day."

[Alaksoron]

Korik smiled at Eodwine. "My wife also plays the lyre. The lyre and flute sound truly lovely in harmony." Still talking, he made his way to the front of the common room. Eodwine exscused himself to retrieve his lyre.

When he returned, Korik raised the flute to his lips and told Eodwine to just follow along. He embarked on a merry tune, and some of the men began to sing along. People from different nations sang it different ways, but the tune remained the same.