‘What new wickedness is this?’ Ibun wondered aloud. ‘Mahal take the one who brought those misbegotten spawns of darkness into being.’ He tapped his fingers against the mug of ale he held. ‘Surely they haven’t sprouted wings now, have they?’
Taking the pitcher of ale the server had left for them, Ibun topped off both their mugs. ‘Was this near the Shire you saw these tracks?’ he asked. ‘I, myself, traveled up The Greenway to Bree and then west on The Great Road into the Shire. It was just a month ago that I started out from the mountains and only a few days ago I came here. I saw no sign of Orc, nor was there any talk about the foul creatures.’ He shook his head. ‘This is bad news, indeed!’
The Inn door swung open before he could go on, and in walked Frór, his eyes blinking in the darker light of the interior. ‘Over here!’ Ibun cried across the busy room. He waved Frór over to the empty chair.
‘That’s my friend, Frór. From The Iron Hills. We’ve only just met this morning, but we found we’re traveling in the same direction, toward The Blue Mountains to the west. Now that the High King sits in Gondor and brings peace to his lands, we Dwarves are seeking those of our kin who left long ago when the Dark Lord (Mahal strike his hammer hard against him!) . . . when he sent his wicked creations against us. A number of them, or so we’ve heard, dwell in The Blue Mountains.’
Ibun broke off his conversation as Frór neared the table. ‘Sit down, sit down, my friend,’ he said to Frór, pushing out the chair for his with his foot. He nodded toward Farael. ‘This is Farael, son of Hadar of Gondor. He’s just come to the Green Dragon, like ourselves.’
The server who’d taken Ibun’s meal order was returning with her tray laden with three bowls of steaming mutton stew, baskets of thick sliced bread, a crock of butter, and cheese. She laid it all out on the table, along with a three spoons and knives. ‘I thought as how you were three now,’ she said in explanation to Ibun, ‘that I’d just go ahead and bring enough stew and bread and such for all of you.’
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Outside a dog, a book is man's best friend.
Inside a dog, it's too dark to read.
-- Groucho Marx
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