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Snaveling had not slept much that night – or morning – for there had been a seemingly endless stream of activity through the stables. He had first been awoken by Aman, who had not, thankfully, seen him in the dark. For this he was grateful, for he felt that he needed the courage of food and daylight before he could face her. Just as he had been on the verge of dropping off to sleep once more there had been a clatter of feet and of muted hooves, followed by the strident voice of that Cook conversing with some strange Men. Again, Snaveling had watched but not interfered, for he knew that Cook had never fully trusted him and he did not want to burst upon her in the dark of night like some vagabond. He was very much aware that he had not formally registered at the Inn and was thus, technically, a trespasser. Things with the Men had looked to be getting serious, and Snaveling was almost at the point of overcoming his reservations and emerging from hiding when he heard the halfling send for Aman. That sent him back into the shadows, but fortunately the Men were soon on their way. He listened intently to the brief conversation between Cook the Innkeeper, and a hobbit he had never seen before, but whom he could tell from the tenor of their talk was the stablemaster. He searched his mind for the name of the previous stablemaster. . .Furlong? Durlong? Why was he no longer in charge here? It was a minor mystery, and one that could wait until morning.
Snaveling settled back into the straw when the others went their way and awaited the dawn. When it arrived, he roused himself from his rough bed and sneaked out from the stable, for he did not wish to be caught there before he’d registered as a guest.
Just as he had the last time he was here, Snaveling went to the kitchen door rather than to the main door into the Common Room. Whereas stealth had driven him on his previous visit, this time it was hunger – his stomach was roaring at him now, and he could not bear the thought of waiting much longer to fill it. He knocked on the door as he came through to the kitchen, hoping for a warm welcome. He well knew how different he was in his appearance than the last time he passed through those doors. His rich clothes were decidedly more ragged now for having passed through all weathers and lands. His hair was longer and shaggy, and he had a rough beard across his face. He looked, he realised, much more like the vagabond who had first come to the Inn than the returned King he had appeared on his last visit.
Cook and her assistants were hard at work preparing the morning meal. Putting on what he hoped was his most welcoming and charming face, Snaveling stepped forward and asked if a poor traveller could have an early bit of food…
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