The Seventh Star Inn

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Still shaking his head at the alarming presence of the Easterling (and, perhaps, if the truth were to be told, shaking a bit in his clothes – for hobbits do not wear boots of course, except in muddy weather) Fordim did what came naturally to him when confronted with a question to which he not only had no answer, but had been totally unprepared for: he put on a thoughtful face and made as though he were giving it deep consideration. His herms and mutterings covered the deep and terrible blank that was his imagination at this precise moment. He fell back on an old trick.

“I don’t know,” he replied breezily, “you undoubtedly are aware of the tale, what do you think the banner should be?””

Sôông scowled at him darkly before proclaiming rather stiffly, “It is not for the listener to describe the tale, but the teller.”

Fordim tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes at the Easterling. “Is it? Is it really? I know that there are many people in this wide world who believe that, but the great lady who sent you is – I assure you – not one of them, nor am I. She and I have spoken of such matters at some length and we rather feel that it is the teller and the listener together who, in some way, are both involved in the creation of the tale’s banner. There are even some,” and here he tilted his head at the sleeping, pot-festooned figure snoring in the corner, “who believe that the teller is entirely irrelevant to the creation of the banner and that it is the listener’s task alone! If you have the time, there are a few tomes of great learning hereabouts that you can look at which detail these debates at some length, the first and – if I may say so – finest of these is called Canonicity…”

At the mere mention of the Thread That Must Not Be Named Esty the loremistress sprang to her feet, crying out “Ai Ai!” There were deep murmurings in the earth and a fell smoke poured toward the White City from Mordor. All eyes glared at Fordim, and the little fellow seemed to shrink into his mug of ale, to which he plied himself in a great show of silencing himself. When the skies were once again light and the birds had begun to sing, Fordim quickly said in a very small voice, “I think that it might be nice to have something with a hooded figure upon it, with the device of a single Ring above, while below him, alleviating the darkness that the figure casts, nine glittering stars, one for each of the gamers who made the tale worth the telling.”