Godren threw back the edges of his black cloak, letting them fall behind his shoulders and smoothed down his sable tunic. The silver star set with an onyx horse’s head that marked him as an errand-rider of Gondor gleamed brightly where it hung from the fine linked chain about his neck. He drew off his leather gloves, tucking them in his belt as he stepped into The Green Dragon.
For a moment, he stood blinking in the dimmer lit interior. When his eyes had accommodated themselves to the lower level of light, he glanced about, looking for the board where notices and messages were put.
Aah! There it was between the bar and the dartboard. With a few quick strides he pulled the rolled up parchment from the pouch at his belt and affixed it to the board.
~*~ NOTICE ~*~
Let it be known that
Fordim Hedgethistle
known to those in the Shire as Master Hearpwine, and etc . . .
has now had his name engraved on the iron plaque that bears the list of the story-tellers of Gondor.
Huzzah!
Let all come to
The Inn of the Seventh Star in Minas Tirith and raise a glass of cheer to Fordim.
** And for those wondering, drink and food are free on this occasion. And all are most welcome **
~*~
~*~
'Most generous, errand-rider! Most generous, indeed!' Cook drew up a pint for the thirsty horseman and mugs of good brown ale for all those in the Inn. 'Master Hearpwine,' she chuckled handing out the foaming brew. 'None better to deserve it!'
She raised her own mug in the general direction of the High King's city and drank it down without a breath intervening . . .