The White Horse Inn, Act II

[Imladris]

Jarlyn

A man swaggered towards Edoras; his white linen shirt flapped in the breeze, shoulder length black hair tied with a leather thong glittered in the morning sun. Sloping eyebrows overshadowed a pair of eyes that were so black and cold they could have been mistaken for onyx stones. Golden rings bedecked the fingers of his right hand, while silver ones adorned the left. A silver chain hung from his neck, two leather pouches bumped against his leg.

Clomping the mud from his boots, he shoved the door open and stepped into the Inn. Raising an eyebrow, he surveyed the room with an eye that watched all like a falcon. The serving maids bustled busily in their swirling skirts, men drank and ate their breakfasts eagerly, a melody from a panpipe danced merrily throughout the room.

Selecting a table in the middle where he could have a good look at the doings of the Inn, he slumped into a chair and pushed a wisp of hair from his eyes. Heaving a sigh, he lifted his legs and rested them upon the table while he jingled a small bag of golden coins thoughtfully.

Catching a woman’s eye, he beckoned to her. As she came towards him, he said, “Hello, po --” he stopped and said hastily, “Greetings fair maiden. I would like a cup of hot water, if it is not too much trouble as well as a small glass of milk,” he added, a toothless smile appearing upon his face.

“Right away, sir,” she said as she hurried off.

The smile, like a whiff of smoke, instantly vanished. The brows furrowed into a slight frown as he untied the other leather bag. A rich aroma, exotic, escaped into the air. Jarlyn breathed deeply and a small smile played about his lips. Spreading a thin, brown stained cloth upon the rugged table, the man poured small, brown grains from the bag onto it until there was a small pile. Swiftly he brought the edges of the cloth together and tied it with a piece of twine. Holding the swaying package aloft, he tapped it slightly with a tanned finger: a mist of brown escaped and fell to the table. “Perfect,” he whispered.

By this time, the maid had returned and set the steaming mug before him with a glass of milk as well. “Thank you, miss,” he said, the thin smile returning. Dropping the bag into the cup, he stirred it with a wooden spoon until the water had turned into a lovely murky brown.

Pouring some milk into the mug, he watched as the white swirls formed, only to disappear as the spoon began to stir. He sniffed experimentally, then sipped. “Delicious, as always,” he muttered to himself as he licked his lips. “But why wouldn’t it be,” he thought to himself, “it’s the best coffee from --” his voice trailed off as another draught of coffee drowned the word.