[Koobdooga]

Ibun Lodestone shifted the large, dark leather pack to his other shoulder as he turned up the dirt path to the Inn. The Dwarf paused for a moment, letting the morning’s breezes riffle through his long russet beard. He pushed back the hood of his yellow cape, letting the full heat of the sun warm his face. He grinned, his mustache curving up in a definite bow above his generous lips. Borne on the trails of those same morning breezes was the creak, creak of the Inn’s sign as it swayed on its iron chains.

‘Be needing a little oil, they do,’ he murmured to himself, hearing the protest of metal against metal.’

The Green Dragon was famous in the tales of his fathers, being the local watering hole nearest the hilly home of Master Bilbo Baggins, renowned thief. He chuckled to himself, delighted that he would at last see it.

A few steps brought him to the door, where he paused to knock the mud from his boots and shake the dust from his cloak. Leaving the bright morning light, he entered the darker interior of the common room, blinking a little as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He felt at ease within the Inn’s walls – its cool, dark interior reminding him of the caves and mines of his home to the far east . Smells of food and drink assailed his nostrils, and he felt his stomach grumble in anticipation.

Taking a table near the wall, where his back would be protected and his view of those coming and going unobstructed, Ibun eased his pack off his shoulders. His cloak he laid neatly over the back of his chair. With a sigh of relief he sat down in the oaken chair. It had been a long morning’s walk and his feet had begun to protest it several miles back.

Servers were hurrying this way and that with platters of food and flagons of spirits. ‘I say, Miss!’ he called out to one who was passing on her way back toward the kitchen. ‘Do you think you might bring a hungry Dwarf some eggs and ham?’ His mouth watered at the thought of it. ‘And perhaps a pint of your fine ale to wet my whistle. My tongue’s fair parched from the dust kicked up from your farmers’ wagons!’