The Vineyard Tavern

[Bêthberry]

Ladies and Gentleman of the Gaming Fora, Dwarves and Elves, Hobbits and Orcs, Creatures Fell and Angelic and All Souls in between,

Welcome to the Vineyard Tavern, the second Inn in Rohan devoted to quality improvisational gaming. The Inns are designed to provide gamers the opportunity to explore new characters and try out game ideas either in preparation for developing game proposals or when waiting for new games to appear. The Vineyard Tavern differs from The White Horse Inn in that it is set before the Lord of the Rings and outside Rohan. This setting, we hope, will give gamers a chance to explore facets of Middle-earth beyond Lord of the Rings. It is, however, in all other respects, like The White Horse.

The Programme of Entertainments

Setting: One year after the defeat of Smaug the Dragon, in the newly built town which replaced Esgaroth, a little northward from where fell the dragon. (See the chapter ?Fire and Water? in The Hobbit)

The year: 2942 T.A. (Third Age) (See Appendix B of LOTR)

The 'Regulars':
Finnian, the Innkeeper (Imladris)
Rochadan, the Stablemaster and daughter Sallie (Ealasaide)
Ædhral, serving girl (Nerindel)
Kannah, oddjobs (Orual)
Bethberry, itinerant healer and guest, Bêthberry

The plot so far: rebuilding Lake-town, aiding the dwarves to rebuild Erebor and Bard to restore Dale; learning how dwarves, elves and men can co-exist.

The Patrons: Barrow Downs gamers who wish to explore Middle earth before the War of the Ring. You can game at all the Inns--The Green Dragon, The White Horse, and the Vineyard Tavern--but feel free to create new characters for the Vineyard.

[Bêthberry]

Anyone whose posts can meet the minimum standard for gaming in The Shire may post in The Vineyard Tavern. Please make sure you are familiar with The Redbook of Westmarch (in The Shire) and The Golden Hall (here in Rohan); these treads provide valuable information about gaming at the Barrow Downs.

No SAVES are allowed in the Inn.

The Vineyard Tavern is run as an interactive, improvisational game. You can plan events via PM or email but the main point is to take your cue from the posts which precede yours. Please read them carefully so your posts reflect current events, the time, the weather, and who other characters are and what they are doing.

Only the Innkeeper or the Moderator can move the Timeframe forward.

Gaming at the Vineyard is open but playing in Rohan games is restricted to gamers who have shown they can can game responsibly and reliably, demonstrating the basic techniques of interactive role playing and writing in clean, clear, correct English. (No chatspeak is allowed.). Please see the next post for the lists of Rohan Game Players and Game Managers.

[Bêthberry]

Anyone can game at The Vineyard Tavern as long as their posts meet the minimum standard for writing as described in The Shire.

Rohan is the place where gamers build upon the skills learnt in The Shire and prepare to become fully independent gamers in Gondor. (It is still a moderated forum but gamers are expected to be more independent and responsible ) For that reason, we have two levels of gamers in Rohan, based upon the level of successful gaming experience in The Shire. People who have participated responsibly and reliably in Shire games and who have demonstrated at least the potential for creative, imaginative, excellent writing skills are Rohan Game Players.

People who have founded and run a game successfully in The Shire have full status as Game Founder (or Manager) as well as Player. These gamers have proven they can maintain a level of enthusiasm and interest over the duration of a game and can motivate their fellow game participants.

Please note that Rohan games are owned by everyone who participates in them. While the Game Founder (or Manager) has an idea of how the game is plotted and structured, all gamers participate in creating the story by writing it.

For the full list of Game Founders and Game Players, please read the thread
The Golden Hall

[Bêthberry]

Finian, still surrounded by lingering morning mists, drew his bow to his ear and aimed the arrow at a shaggy bale of straw. A finger of dawn dropped upon it and it shimmered, transforming into a great golden dragon with translucent wings of aurora beauty. Yellow flames, flecked with orange and streaked with crimson, burst from its fang-ridden mouth, burning the innocent town below, destroying the wooden huts. Pillars of fire erupted from the dried thatch. Children screamed. Women and men dived into the safety of the water. But a lone man -- nay, it was a young boy not yet into full manhood -- stood his ground: he alone dared face the golden wyrm. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled the bow string taut, drawing the arrow to his ear. The dragon soared through the sky as a burning star alight with dawn"s fire, radiant with brilliant liht save for a gaping hole below the heart. The arrow leaped from the bow with a shrill cry and plunged itself into the black hole. With an agonized roar, the dragon toppled from the sky to drop into the lake below. Bubbles rose to the lake"s smooth surface, the agitated water hissed and steamed, and the --

"I would think the innkeeper of the Vineyard Tavern would be behind the bar instead of staring at a bale of straw as if it meant to kill you," said Rochadan, a smile drifting about his face.

Finian jerked his head away and blinked at the stable master. Rochadan and his father had been good friends, and since his father had died in Smaug's attack, the stable master had helped him establish a new Vineyard Tavern. The boy stared at the stable master, looking into his rugged face, his deep brown eyes. Then he grinned, and said, "Then the guests are indeed foolish to stir this early about."

Rochadan flashed a grin and then said, "Ædhral was looking for your sister, Ærosylle. She is not in the Tavern."

Blast it. The girl was always disappearing. "I will find her soon," he said, rolling his eyes. Drat. Patrons came first. They always came first in the business, his father had told him. Why did she always have to disappear? Finian was sure it was because she knew he could not drop everything and rush to find her. She liked to be alone, doing her strange antics, thinking her strange thoughts.

Still pondering whether he should find her or not, Finian spared a glance at the newly built and refurnished Vineyard Tavern. He ran his fingers through his hair and nodded with a broad smile at the sturdy building. His father had been Innkeeper before him in old Esgaroth but he perished in a spout of Smaug's flame when wyrm had descended onto Lake-Town, leaving him as the new innkeeper and the sole provider for his younger sister, Ærosylle. Finian shook his head: that had been a fleeting year ago. It had been a busy time, with many maimed and injured. Bêthberry the healer had helped and then, as an old family friend, stayed on to attend to his sister, but the illness was a strange one which seemed beyond healing at times. Yet Bethberry stayed on, becoming a kindly ear for any at the Inn and offering advice and herbal remedies to those who needed it, and becoming a part of the new Vineyard Tavern.

The Vineyard Tavern was not large, but neither was it small. The wood was light pine, with a thatch roof. The Tavern's sign, with a cluster of grapes painted on the top left corner and elves rafting upon a river in the bottom right hand corner, dangled from a projecting beam of wood. His father, he hoped, would be proud of him. Forgoing for a small time the search for his sister, Finain, with another small sigh, marched into the inn, and looked about him. Not many people were gathered in the Common Room but that was to be expected. The people were busy planting for the season. Mainly the men were traders dropping by for a pint of ale or a goblet of wine before continuing their trip down the river. Then they would return for a few days, rafts laden with wealth, seeds, produce and news.

A strong smell of spice and roasted meat wafted through the common room and Finian, with a smile, dashed to the kitchen and poked his head through the door. Ædrhal was busy stirring a great iron pot. Ædrhal towered; her hair a loose braid down her back. She heard his clatter and, turning her head, said, "We are having a bit of eggs and bacon, Finian."

"We have not had bacon for a very long time," said Finian with a grin.

She merely smiled at him.

"We do not have as many hungry guests this morning as we normally do," said Finian -- not like when my father was the innkeeper -- "but we have enough." He nodded his head, a half smile about his lips.

Leaving the kitchen, he stationed himself behind the bar, talking to the occasional customer who ordered a frothing mug of ale. The thought of his sister nagged at his mind. He should go out and look for her?but the patrons of the Inn needed to be satisfied first.

[Ealasaide]

At the hitching post outside the stables, Rochadan bent down over the foreleg of a horse that had just come into his care by way of a newly arrived guest at the Vineyard Tavern. He could tell at a glance that the horse favored the leg and was not surprised to discover some swelling above the fetlock. It was probably just a slight sprain, he decided, but he would have a word with the horse's owner as soon as possible. Both forelegs would benefit from being wrapped at least for a few days. He straightened and patted the animal's neck. Looking across the inn yard, he could see the new innkeeper, Finian, standing with a bow in his hand and a look of cold determination in his eyes as he prepared to put to death a nearby hay bale. Rochadan smiled and walked in the young man's direction.

"I would think the innkeeper of the Vineyard Tavern would be behind the bar instead of staring at a bale of hay as if it meant to kill you," he said pleasantly.

Jolted out of his daydream, Finian turned quickly and blinked at the stablemaster. Then he grinned. "Then the guests are indeed foolish to stir this early about."

Rochadan laughed. It was indeed early, but the Vineyard's guests had a tendency not only to be up and about at all hours, but to expect food, drink, and service as well. It would do the young innkeeper well to bear that in mind, thought Rochadan, but he did not press the subject. Finian had proven himself quite dedicated over the past year, so a little grumbling from the young fellow was not only acceptable, but understandable. On the other hand, there was something Rochadan had been meaning to tell Finian. He paused to think what it was. He had been so absorbed in finding the cause of the lameness in the guest's horse that he had nearly forgotten the conversation he had had with Ædhral, one of the serving girls, just a short while earlier. She had been looking for Ærosylle, Finian's sister, and been unable to find her. The girl had a way of turning up missing from time to time. Usually she could be found again fairly quickly, but, with her odd ways, her wandering off was always troubling.

"Ædhral was looking for your sister, Ærosylle," he told Finian. "She is not in the Tavern."

"I will find her soon," answered Finian and, taking his bow, walked off in the direction of the door to the common room. Rochadan watched him go thinking how much the boy had matured in the year since his father, Aeron, had died. Before the coming of the dragon a year ago, Rochadan would never have believed a happy-go-lucky scamp like Finian capable of running the Vineyard, much less rebuilding it from the ground up. Having seen the innkeeper killed and the inn go up in flames, Rochadan had been certain that he would be out of a job and be forced to take his daughter and move on. To his surprise, when he had returned with the rest of the men from fighting at Bard's side in the Battle of the Five Armies, he found Finian hard at work with plans to rebuild the place. He took heart from Finian's faith and threw himself into the work of rebuilding the inn with a sort of energy that he didn't think he could muster anymore. Between the two of them, they had done an admirable job of it, too. Rochadan was as proud of - and as attached to - the inn as if it were his own.

After all, the Vineyard Tavern had been his home for three years now, ever since the death of his wife, Tristana, in childbirth. Prior to her passing, Rochadan had been a long distance messenger, carrying mail and dispatches from Esgaroth to wherever they needed to go throughout Middle Earth. When she had died, leaving him a widower at twenty-six with despair in his heart and a tiny infant on his hands, he had given up his life as a messenger and taken the job as stablemaster at the inn. Looking back, he saw Aeron's offer of the job at such a crucial moment in his life as the one thing that had saved him. Without it, he hated to think what might have become of him or his daughter. After Aeron's death, Rochadan had mourned him as if the innkeeper had been Rochadan's own father, rather than his employer. Now, as the oldest member of the staff aside from the cook, he felt a sense of responsibility toward the young people who now ran the Vineyard. He would do whatever he could to help them make a success of the place. He owed it to Aeron.

Returning to the hitching post where he had left the injured horse, he glanced toward the patch of grass just outside the stable door where his three year old daughter sat making mud pies out of a bucket. He had set her down there nearly an hour earlier and was pleased to see that she was still there, singing softly to herself as she carefully garnished each mud pat with grass and bits of loose straw. Keeping one eye on her as he worked, he groomed the injured horse and led him inside to a clean box stall. Coming back out of the stable, Rochadan leaned on the fence just over the little girl, watching her dark head as it bent over her work.

"Well, precious Sallie," he said at last. "It's nigh on breakfast time."

The little girl sighed without looking up. "It's not pre-shus Sallie," she corrected him patiently. "It's Princess Sallie. Princess Sallie Spitfire...Trouble."

Rochadan suppressed a chuckle. "Apologies, my lady." He knelt down in the grass beside her. "But I don't think folks around here will hold with much fire spitting just now, especially not in light of our recent past. What other trouble have you got?"

She looked up at her daddy and smiled radiantly. "I made mud pies. For the kitties. They're very hungry."

Rochadan smiled in return, but there was a sadness in his eyes. Since Tristana's death, Salaidhwyn, or Sallie as he had called her almost since birth, had been the light of his life. Nonetheless, it pained him sometimes to look at her as the little girl's smile carried within it the image of her mother. And then there was that dragging leg. A breech birth, her left leg had been broken by the midwife during the delivery that Tristana had not survived, and the break had not healed correctly. As a result, Sallie had been left with a severe limp. The healers all said that it would grow less noticeable as the child grew older, but Rochadan worried for her anyway. His smiled fading, he reached out and touched his daughter's cheek. In response, she stood and placed one small, muddy hand on either side of his face. Leaning forward, she gave him a kiss on the mouth.

"Don't be sad, Papa," she said softly, her lower lip beginning to tremble. "Don't be sad."

Remembering himself, Rochadan let his smile broaden again. He winked at his daughter and let one hand stray very close to the largest mud pie. "Did you save one for me? I'm very hungry, too."

The little girl shrieked and caught her father's hand. "No, Papa! Stop!" she giggled as the two of them struggled playfully over the mud pies. Finally, he swept her up into his arms and, settling her on one hip, walked toward the door to the inn's kitchen. While he needed to get some breakfast for Sallie, he also wondered if anyone had managed to find Ærosylle yet. If not, he would have a look around for her himself. He opened the door to the kitchen, completely forgetting about the muddy handprints that graced both of his cheeks.

[Nurumaiel]

Cynan Harwell walked slowly and carefully along the road, with his arm about the shoulders of a little boy, perhaps nine years old, who was trying both bravely and vainly to fight away tears. Cynan himself seemed to be like most boys of his age, one-and-ten years. He seemed to conceal an infinite store of energy and mischief, for while he walked with slow deliberate steps a little glint in his grey eyes betrayed his real personality. His hair was a sandy brown and he had a few light freckles on his slightly tanned face. He was just beginning to grow taller, though he did not look any older than his age. Thus far, the normal little boy.

His companion was much different to look at, and it cannot be doubted that he received a few stares as he walked unsteadily down the road. The right side of his face was badly burned, and his right arm fell uselessly at his side. His right leg dragged along behind him and every step seemed to cause him considerable pain. There could be no shadow of a doubt as to where he had received these burns. The left side of his face, however, showed something else. There were some burns but they were faint, not nearly as prominent as those on his right side, and if one took the time to stop staring and then averting their eyes and staring again, but looked at him with a clear steady gaze they might see that his features were fair, and kind, and also contained some nobility, but not in the sense that he was of a high rank. But this, sadly, was only for the keen observer to see, and the casual would be horrified at the burns on his face, and the way he limped, and how his right eye was squinted and narrow, causing it to be of an uneven size with the left eye.

The keen observer might also notice with what compassion and tenderness Cynan guided the little burnt fellow, moving especially slow so the burnt would not be injured, and supporting him strongly with his arm yet not causing him any pain by too firm a grip. For Cynan was a compassionate boy at heart, despite his love for causing mischief, and when he had seen the little fellow lying curled up on the street crying he had felt a surge of pity and had taken it upon himself to care for him. Yes, the keen observer would also see that Cynan had known the boy for only ten minutes.

A year ago, when the dragon Smaug had descended upon his home and devastated it, Cynan found himself left without a father, and his older sister had died, though his younger two brothers and three sisters had survived. His mother, too, had lived, but she had been sick ever since, weeping in grief, and Cynan had heard whisperings from the neighbors the she was dying of a broken heart. He felt that both were ridiculous... his mother was not, of course, dying, and nobody ever died of a broken heart. And so, ridiculous.

Cynan felt comforted when he saw the sign with the words The Vineyard Inn written upon hanging above the door. In the days before Smaug had come Cynan's father had often gone to that same Inn to meet with others and take a mug of ale after a long, weary day. Cynan himself did not know any about the Inn and had never seen the Inn before, but when he saw the name old recollections stirred in him and he remembered how his father had spoken of it. Here he would surely find a chair to set this poor little boy down in, and perhaps a bit of rag to dry his eyes. And when Cynan thought of rags he looked sorrowfully at the ragged clothes the little boy wore.

Pushing open the door, he helped the boy up the steps, and the little fellow whimpered softly under his breath. Cynan felt pity overcome him again, and then he pulled a chair out from a table and sat the boy down in it. The latter seemed relieved at this opportunity of rest and ran a dirty sleeve across his eyes, brushing the tears away. Looking up at Cynan, he said solemnly, in a voice full of gratitude, "Thank you sir. Thank you so very much."

"It is nothing at all," Cynan said lightly, sitting down himself. "Nothing at all." He did not speak for a moment but looked with friendliness into the younger boy's eyes, and then he leaned forward slightly in a comradely way. "I hope you will not resent my asking the question," he said, "but I should very much like to know how you came to be lying on the road in tears."

The boy looked confused for a moment, and then his burnt face cleared a little and he spoke, though very slowly. "Well, sir, my master grew upset with me."

"Upset?"

"Yes, sir. I had been clumsy and spilled things."

Cynan felt a sensation of horror creep over him and though he felt he knew the answer very well, he asked, "What happened then?"

"Well, sir, he... he beat me." A shudder went through the boy's body, and the tears filled in his eyes again. "And then he threw me out in the street."

"Well!" cried Cynan, indignation burning his voice. "Well! say I again! If the mean fellow threw you out of his place it seems to be a grand thing entirely. More's the pity to him, but you should be glad rid of him."

"Oh." The boy shook his head with a sad little smile. "It isn't the first time it has happened. He will want me back as he has oft before."

Cynan was startled at this, but he did not lose his power of speech. "Whatever induced you to go to work for such a horrible man?" he questioned, for he was quite certain that the man was horrible. No good man could ever beat a poor, burnt little boy and then throw him out. If the boy was clumsy, was it not natural, as he had only one hand to use and he could not walk well?

"I could go nowhere else," the boy said. "When the dragon came a year ago my mother and father were killed and also my brother. I, as you see, was rendered useless by these burns. No one would take me to work because I could not do much."

"And so," Cynan said, "the only one who would take you was a wicked man who could not find anyone prior because of his wickedness."

"Indeed, sir."

"And so you must go back later today?"

"Yes, sir."

Cynan fell silent and began to ponder this. He found it quite ridiculous that this boy should work for such a man, and he found it outrageous. Yet he himself could do nothing. He had been searching for work himself for the past few weeks. His father had owned a considerable wealth when he was killed, and the family had managed on this money for a year, but Cynan was beginning to see that it would not last forever, and he took it upon himself as the eldest to go find work, as his mother was sick in bed.

"Tell me," he said, "why do you work for this man, aside from that he was the only place of work. You have no family to provide for (more's the pity, though), and surely you could find someone who would be willing to take care of you. There are some very kindhearted people hereabouts."

"I have found no one," said the boy, "and I also wish to earn as much money as I can. I hardly spend any of it, but beg for my meals in the streets. I want to have a little bit of fortune set aside in the case that I ever find my little sister. She is only six years old, if she is alive, and she became lost when the dragon struck. I have not found her since. I... I want to have some money if I ever find her, so she might have a home and some food."

"You," said Cynan with genuine admiration, "are a very good sort of boy. I am most pleased to meet you. Please, won't you tell me your name?"

"I am called Andhun," said the boy.

Cynan took the boy's good hand in his own and held it in a gentle, friendly clasp. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance," he said, "and I hope we shall be good friends."

A little smile flickered on the boy's face and he said, "I should very much like it, sir."

"Well then, we shall." And the two settled back in their chairs in comradely silence.

[Eruantalon]

Sitting quitly at a corner table. The tall man ,cloaked and hooded, sets his wears about his feet. Only a pipe is seen with glowing embers jutting out from his cloak. He pays no mind to the comming and goings around him. In the darkness of his hood burns two eyes like coals.

Yet he is not angary nor bothered. This is just his way. To be quit and to be unnoticed. So many things have happened to him. But he knows that he must now find some peace. Before the storm rises again. There are simple pleasures he can find here. Although he dosn't look it he is terribaly storng. But like all of his abbilitys this is hidden. Just as his mind and thoughts are veiled.

"The table seems to have a broken leg." He thinks to himself.

Grasping the edge of the round table. He lifts the entire table off the groud with one hand, as he sets one of his books underneath to steady it. He then realizes hes unwittingly done somthing that can draw stares. The table was not massive but it was big enough to raise attention. But for him being noticed could draw somthing out he didn't want. He hoped for the best and whent back to his thoughts.

Sitting quitly he thinks of his plans. Where will he go next? Who will he seek out? And most importently will they help?

[Esgallhugwen]

The door swung open smoothly and in stepped an Elf. But it was not how one would ordinarily see an Elf, in fact it was quite an extraordinary sight.

For he was soaked from head to foot and had a most displeased look upon his face as if someone had played a cruel joke on him, which was not far from the truth. His golden blonde hair was in disarray, and his green and gold attire dripped all over the dry wooden floor.

With a sigh he looked about the Tavern, a small puddle of water forming around where he stood. His blue eyes caught sight of a table that was bathed in the sun's light.

As he made his way towards it his boots left a wet trail and a distinguished soppy sucking noise. Though he was mindful of the eyes that began to look upon him he pulled out the chair and stretched himself out in the sun.

His hope was that the Innkeeper wouldn't kick him out for making the floor wet.

[Orual]

"...Three. Four. Five."

Checking stock, Kannah thought irritably as she counted the sacks of flour in the store-room. Working here as long as I have, I'm still stuck checking stock. This is not what I agreed on.

She hefted the final sack of flour back to where it had been, and wiped the soft, fine powder on her emerald-green skirt. She looked in dismay at the streak it left on her clothes, shaking the multilayered skirt to no avail. She looked up from it when she heard a creaking noise coming from the common room.

If nothing else, Kannah had sharp ears for anything that may cost the inn money.

She swished her way into the common room, flicking her dark hair out of her face as she walked. "Is there a prob--" she began sharply, then stopped short. A tall man, swathed in a cloak, had corrected a table's uneven leg with a book. She flushed. "My apologies, sir, I'll get that looked at right away. Is there something I can get for you in the meantime?"

[Imladris]

Finian laughed as he saw the table wobble as the man strove to correct it with a book, but saw that Kannah had come to his assistance.

The flow of customers had slowed and the only traffic the door saw were men sauntering out the door, which was, of course, entirely the wrong direction. Finian drummed his fingers and sighed. It was a pity that the Tavern wasn't a wee bit busier, but it was well off all in all. Besides, he thought with a grin, if it was busier there would be no time for fun. And what was life without a dollop (a large dollop preferably) of fun, eh?

At that moment, the door swung open and a tall elf strode into the room. His brows met in a jagged cleft, his green cloak hung limply from his tall body, and water streamed from his body. Finian's brows shot up, and he stifled a chortle. It was not every day that one saw a disgruntled elf.

Vaulting over the counter, Finian approached the man (still trying to smother the grin that would come to his face when he heard the squish of the elf's feet) and said, "May I help you, good sir?"

Behind him, he could see his sister carefully place her feet on his wet footprints and try to mimic his walk.

[Ealasaide]

"About me?" Rochadan caught the sparkle of mirth in Kellan's eyes and smiled in spite of himself. “There’s really not much to tell,” he said pleasantly, leaning on one rung of the ladder. “I used to be a long-distance messenger, delivering mail and dispatches from Esgaroth to wherever they needed to go. Now I take care of the horses here at the Vineyard. But, as far as your keeping me from my work, please don’t worry yourself. We haven’t many guests right now, so there really isn’t that much to do... other than fix this ladder.” He cast a dubious glance up at the broken rung.

“Thank you,” Kellan answered with a smile of her own. “But I hope you will tell me if that changes and you do find yourself with more pressing things to do. As I said, I would enjoy talking a bit, but am fine with parting as well.” She paused. “As far as your story goes,” she added after a few seconds of comfortable silence had passed. “I’m sure there must be more to it than that!”

“Well, yes.” Rochadan nodded. “There always is more to a story than one initially tells, isn’t there? Actually, for the moment, I am more interested in hearing the rest of your story than gabbing on about myself. I’m sure there is more to it, as well, than what you have told so far. When you say you come from a tribe in the Far South, would I be correct in guessing that you come from Far Harad? What brings you this far north? That’s a very long journey, especially to be made on foot and all alone but for the company of your dog.”

[mark12_30]

LinGalad entered, slipped into an out-of-the-way corner and asked for a glass of wine. It was brought to him, and he raised it quietly.

"To Ambassador Bilbo; Happy Birthday," he said, and sipped the wine. He sat for a while absorbed in his musings.

[Esgallhugwen]

Thalinar eyed her quizically, what an odd girl. "Ah yes that is true, never give a deaf ear when someone or something is trying to talk to you, but the only voices that I can follow are that of the trees, birds and other beasts".

His confusion turned to sadness when Ærosylle said she had made them angry and that it gets lonely without them. "If I'm being rude theres no need to answer but how did you make them angry? What do you mean?, surely you have others to talk to, the innkeeper seems like a nice fellow". Thalinar frowned and looked at the small fire that was beginning to die.

His stomach grumbled and Ærosylle giggled, "I would have never thought my stomach would growl while residing in an Inn", he joked, "I fear that means I will have to venture down the stairs and recieve some nourishment, I wish not to cause that girl Ædhral, any more embarrasement. Today has not been my best day".

He sighed but keeping his pride in check he stood and asked, "would you like to accompany me for lunch?".

[Nerindel]

Cook/Nell

“Well you are keen master Stony I will give you that!” Nell laughed. “The pantry is this way and is always kept well stocked,” she told the dwarf as she ushered him towards the pantry door. “both the butcher and the milk maid come each morning with fresh deliveries, but if there is anything we don’t have you’ll most likely find it in the towns marketplace.”

“Thank you, Nell!” Stony nodded as his steady gaze searched along the lines of shelves .

“This!” he questioned, reaching out to pick up a bunch of freshly pulled carrots “are these delivered fresh too?” he mused aloud.

“Oh no master Stony, we do have our own vegetable garden out back, carrots, parsnips, neeps, pea’s that kind o thing and Ædhral has planted a very lovely herb wheel so that we are never short of fresh herbs.” she grinned proudly.

“But I will leave you now to get on and look forward to tasting your culinary delight, if you need anything… well I’m here,” she laughed with a shrug as she went to re-join Finnian and Ædhral at the table.

[Imladris]

Ærosylle grinned broadly at him and slipped her hand in his. "To answer your questions, sir, I do not know why they stop speaking to me. They just do. I do not know why..."

She glanced up at the elf and smiled faintly at him. As they walked down the stairs, the delicious smell of stew wafted towards them. The elf hung his head and held to the shadows, as though ashamed of being seen. She found that very odd. "Would you like me to get you a bowl?" she asked.

At his nod, she flitted off and begged the cook, Nell, for two bowls of stew. She courtseyed to a nearby dwarf and found the elf still hovering in the shadows. "Why do you hid?" she asked.

[The Perky Ent]

"Right!" Tror said, as he glanced around at all the food at his disposal. "I can see the pots are over there! I'll get to work. You just let them know I'll be cooking my secret recipie. Family tradition! Right, well thank you. If you don't mind, I must get started!" Stoney said, as he politely ushered Nell off. Looking around at the vast kitchen, Stoney felt nervous. This could effect how they think of him. They could fire him. It had to be perfect.

"Well first, I'll need a pot!" Tror said, as he walked over to one within his reach and put a fire under it. "Now for the ingredients! First, some curry!" Tror said, opening the pantry. Inside, he found a multitude of spices. There were several shelves, with every inch packed. "Come now! You must be joking!" For Tror found the curry. It was on the very top shelf. Looking around for a stool, Stoney found none. "I know! I'll rope it down!" And Stoney, grabbing some string, tied a lasso and swung it in the air. The lasso landed on parseley, a couple bottles down from the curry. Pulling on the string, the bottle fell from the shelf and broke. "Right! Lasso's are a bad idea!" Stoney said, trying to conceal the mess.

"Is everything alright back there?" Nell shouted to Tror, as he still tried to hide the glass. "Fine! Just fine! It's all under control!" The dwarf shouted, as he pondered how to get the curry. "Ah! I'll climb up!" And slowly, Stoney started to climb. Upon reaching the fourth shelf, the dwarf almost fell off, but holding on with one hand, he continued on. Finally reaching the curry, Tror reached out for it. But as he grabbed the bottle, he slipped on the shelf, and landed flat on his back on the floor. Getting to his feet, he opened the bottle and put the spice in. For the next hour, it was the same process, but with different spices. Each time, Stoney would climb up, and each time, he would slip.

Finally, after all the ingrediants had been put in the pot, Stoney added boiling water and let it cook. Several minutes later, the soup was ready. Getting bowls for everyone, Stoney poured the soup in equel servings, and gave everyone a bowl. "Well, what do you think?"