Flight from Rohan RPG

[piosenniel]

It was late and most of the patrons had gone home, or to their rooms. Archim sat at the back table with 3 men from the Inn and Graitwa, while Fréa and Hama, yawning mightily sat at a nearby table blearily trying to keep track of Archim’s patter and his cards.

He was having a so called run of luck with them it seemed, but not so much to arouse the suspicions of the men playing with him. He would win a hand then lose a couple then win again – a pattern that repeated itself in a non-predictable manner. Fréa however knew that he was cheating, and he was hoping that soon his brother would call it quits and they could retire safely to their own beds.

This, however, was not to happen. Too many pints and too many hands lost raised the temper of one of the men, and he stood up quickly, his knife drawn and pointed at Archim. His slurring words accused the youngest Forgoil of all sorts of chicanery and he grabbed the edge of the heavy table and upended it.

Archim was on his feet in a blink, his own knives drawn, his eyes on the drunk man who stood just a few feet from him. The Innkeeper grabbed his stout stick from behind the bar and rushed to restrain the local man, while Fréa went quickly to Archim and spoke quietly to him, his hands on his brother’s arms. Hama and Graitwa stood ready to defend their companion, though Graitwa glared at Archim with undisguised contempt.

A brief while later found them out on the path leading from the Inn, their packs secured to their mounts once more. The pot of money had been equally divided among the card players and the Forgoils and Hama had been invited to leave the Inn with a strong suggestion by the Innkeeper that they leave Tharbad altogether.

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Six days later found them just on outskirts of Bree, and with an hour more in the saddle they found themselves entering the South Gate and making for the Prancing Pony. Dusty and saddle sore, Archim dismounted with a grateful sigh, his eyes lighting up at the swinging sign bearing the logo of the Inn’s name.

His foot was on the bottom step of the Inn’s porch, when Fréa’s grip on his arm detained him. ‘Need something, brother?’ asked Archim as the other two companions traipsed by them and into the Inn. Fréa’s grip tightened on his brother’s arm and he held out his hand expectantly.

‘The cards, brother. Give them to me. All the cards . . .’

[ August 19, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]