The White Horse

[Nurumaiel]

"From here," replied Culoth. "I've lived in Rohan all my life. We used to live at the capital but now we live in a house all alone out on the plains." She looked curiously at Galadel. "You're an elf?"

"Yes," said Galadel with a nod.

"I've never met an elf before... though I'm trying to learn to speak their tongue, Sindarin.

"Lots of people here in Rohan speak evil of the Lady Galadriel, but my father taught me differently. I don't know how he knows what he does about her... I think maybe he knows some elves. But all the stories I've heard about her are beautiful, wonderful stories."

Culoth found herself staring at Galadel in wonder. She suddenly thought she realized who this fair Elf before her was, so she asked, "Do you know the Lady Galadriel?"

[Galadel Vinorel]

Culoth found herself staring at Galadel in wonder. She suddenly thought she realized who this fair Elf before her was, so she asked, "Do you know the Lady Galadriel?"

Galadel laughed; she had been found out. "Yes I do, Rochriel, " said galdel, smiling broadly, "I am Lady Galadriel's daughter. Her second child, and I am now the Lady of the Golden Wood, since my mother departed over the Sea,"

Culoth stared at Galadel in awe, and the elf nearly laughed again. "Now don't stare at me like that," said Galadel, and then she changed the subject, "How much Sindarin do you know, Rochriel? Elen sila lumen omentilvo." Galadel nodded as she said this and then faced the young woman and waited for her response.

[Nurumaiel]

"Le i Brenniliel! (you are the daughter of the Lady)" Culoth gasped. "A i Brennil Malthen Taur! (And Lady of the Golden Wood) Oh, please forgive my inaccuracy of in speaking Sindarin, for I have only just begun to learn."

"Can you sing?" asked Galadel abruptly.

"Why, yes, I can," said Culoth. "Would you like me to?"

"Yes, please. Sing a song in Sindarin."

"Very well. It's called Fael I Celyn." Culoth opened her mouth and began to sing in a strong, clear voice.

Ir cordofath galaned Hithui
Ir gweloth galaerin galadh
Ir less calen ned Girithron
Ha dorath nalain.
Im reviahe emyn ar he imled
Gorn naer cenim
Dor alluir isto leithian
Ar fael he celyn norlain.

Im sogana i gur he gweth
Ha thelyn i sennui gargwanath
Na cui ned i ring angwidh band
Na togad hain u-fyrn.
Elo le si ir min baur le
Lachaman i naur iuitho nan
Le nori lyss o medui rhiw
Ar fael he celyn norlain.

Lend cuil ir ha nallren
Moe i sogair ha parch
Bain i ir ha gwanu
Milui i gwaew ha naergon
Maer ned nith ir ha brun
Gell ned hin u-tira
Ir ennas naer ned silanor ar loth
Ar fael he celyn norlain.

[ January 08, 2003: Message edited by: Nurumaiel ]

[Galadel Vinorel]

"You sing very beautifully, Rochriel. Did you say that you father taught you how to speak Sindarin? Well, then did he travel to Rivendell or some other Elven Kingdom in Middle Earth? Also, is it he who also taught you that song which you just sang?" asked Galadel curiously, smiling over at the young woman.

[ January 11, 2003: Message edited by: Galadel Vinorel ]

[Nurumaiel]

"No, my father never travelled to any elven lands... not that I know of," said Culoth. "He never told me how he learned Sindarin, but he's taught me to speak it rather well. But, as you can probably see, or rather, hear, I'm not that good at it.

"My mother taught me that song," said Culoth. "It's beautiful isn't it? She also taught me this one. It's a little lullaby, in my people's own tongue."

Culoth began to sing once more, this time in Rohirric. The song was gentle and lulling, as most lullabies are.

Restan nu, fæger an
Fore nanwuht nu fyrhtu
Eall niht fæger eac giet
Restan eac don ne fyrhtu.

Restan nu, giet an
Fore eorcanstan lyft niht
Mæst eorcanstan scinan beorht
Restan eac don ne fyrhtu.

Restan nu, min cild
Na pleoh on niht
Na fæhðo hwæþer guð
Restan eac don ne fyrhtu.

Culoth finished and started once again, this time singing in the common tongue so Galadel would understand.

Sleep now, fair one
For there is nothing now to fear
All nights are beautiful and still
Sleep and do not fear.

Sleep now, still one
For stars are in the sky tonight
The moon shines brightly
Sleep and do not fear.

Sleep now, my child
There is no danger on this night
There is no battle or war
Sleep and do not fear.

[Orual]

A lean figure limped into the inn, shouldering his brown pack. He looked around the room, taking in all of his fellow patrons, and nodded slowly. He took a deep breath and a seat at the bar. In a voice hardly louder than a whisper, he asked for an ale.

He was quite a sight, with his thick flaxen hair falling into his sharp grey eyes. He kept pushing it away impatiently, but to no avail. It had become his nervous habit. He wasn't an unattractive young man, but very thin, and his limp was distracting. His tawny-coloured shirt was dusty and too large, making him look even smaller than he already was. His eyes darted to and fro around the room, as though anxious that someone would attack him. He thanked the innkeeper when his ale came, and drank it quickly. It seemed to relax him; he leaned his head back and sighed. Éorlan was his name, and he had come to the Inn to recuperate from his journies and to look for good company, good tales, and perhaps even a good adventure.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Frain's stout and short figure stepped noisily into the White Horse Inn. Three loud thunks sounded as he brought both feet and a walking stick onto the wooden floor of the Inn. People all around talked, ate and drank. Though he had never been in Rohan, he brought news that the patrons may wish to hear.

Frain searched the faces of the Inn, looking for a friend. There she was! Bethberry, honourable innkeeper of the White Horse!

Frain, with a smile lighting up his face, walked over to Bethberry. She did not looked surprised, or perhaps she hid it well. They exchanged a hug, though Bethberry had to kneel to bring herself to the dwarf's level.

"It has been a long time, good Bethberry! I have news that may interest the writers and adventurers among us," Frain began as he took an empty chair near the innkeeper. "Though we dwarves may not go along. Hmph! Sure. We are allowed to send the news to others, yet we are asked not to join in the adventure! 'Tis for Humans."

Bethberry smiled and looked at Frain. Of course! thought Frain. He was getting off-topic. Save your opinions for later!

"May I?" Frain asked Bethberry, spreading his arms, referring to the Inn. She nodded approval, and Frain stood on his chair to make him taller. He took his walking stick and knocked it onto the chair-seat loudly. No one seemed to notice.

"Seems their ears aren't what they used to be, eh?" Frain grumbled. He tried a different approach. "Listen up!" He called out in a deep, booming voice. Seconds later the commotion and talking in the Inn stopped, and only the sound of glasses on wooden tables could be heard.

"Alright then! In Dale, there are old legends and children's tales of a lost race. Not only that, but a book, that was said to document their habits and their secret medicines, potions, and remedies for sicknesses that still plague us! Interested? Take a look at the 'Search for the Book discussion'!"

For a moment, everybody stared at him. Frain was a bit uncomfortable, with all so many eyes on him. He mumbled under his breath for a moment, until he called, "Well don't just sit there and stare! Get back to yer drinks or hurry over to Dale!"

[ January 14, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry caught old Fróma's frowning nod and went to speak with him. He was none too pleased, but then chefs who submit to having others use their kitchens rarely are. He tore a strip up and down about the mess which Culoth had left the counters in and the disorder to the cupboards where she had checked for foodstuffs. The Innkeeper listened for several minutes, nodding, commiserating, adding an occasion "No doubt", and then finally offerred a suggestion to the cook. He considered it for several minutes, the Innkeeper sweetened the suggestion with a glass of ale, and he finally agreed. He went off then, to the market, to order new stocks. The Innkeeper returned to the MeadHall.

In a loud voice, she summoned both Culoth and Galadel.

"It would seem that some tidying up is required in the kitchen, from those who took liberties to prepare their own food. Culoth and Galadel, there is a large stack of dishes, pots, pans, glasses, all manner of utensils needing cleaning, and Fróma has other work to attend to. You can sing while you clean up in the kitchen, and there will be a tankard of ale for you when you've done. But mind now that you don't break anything. And scour everything well. And tell us about it." She smiled broadly at the two as they went off to the kitchen.

Directing her attention elsewhere, the Innkeeper then sat down with Éorlan and Frain, wrapping a large tartan shawl around her shoulders, for the day was proving cold with a harsh blowing wind outside.

"Frain, I will post a notice here, for any who drop by to read, about this tale from Dale of the lost book. Éorlan, your walk suggests you have a sombre story to tell. Will it please you to tell it to us?"

=======

If you are interested in the game which Frain has told us of, go here to read about joining it:Search for the Book-- Discussion

[Orual]

Éorlan, your walk suggests you have a sombre story to tell. Will it please you to tell it to us?

The young man looked up and smiled shyly. He fingered his mug, seeming reluctant to say anything.

"Your pardon, lady," he finally said, "I seem to have forgotten my manners. Yes, if it pleases you, I'll tell my story."

He sighed. "My family lived on a homestead on the far outskirts of Rohan. That is, my mother and father, and my sister and I." He paused for a moment, struggling with himself it seemed. Then he continued. "My father was never a very popular man--never held the common opinion on anything, and always said everything he thought loudly. Don't get me wrong, most in Rohan found him harmless, even amusing, for my father spoke loudly but acted seldom. But there were a few who disliked, even hated him for speaking too much about things they didn't want said. My father's tales were not limited to politics and things of the world, but often included people and their doings. For years my mother tried to stop him from 'shooting off his mouth', as she said, but he refused, said that he had the right to say anything he wished. And that he did, I'll tell you. He did that.

"As I already said, we lived far away from the towns and seldom got visitors, so my family was very tight-knit. My sister and I didn't fight like I've heard tell that siblings often do. She was my only friend. Is my only friend," he corrected himself hastily. "Is. We went into town occasionally, but it was always a big holiday and we never met any of the town children, and no one ever bothered to come up to our house to see us.

"It wasn't that long ago, I don't suppose...no, less than two weeks, though I can hardly believe it. It was the dead of night, and a chill was in the air. I had just come back to my room from giving my sister an extra blanket when I heard a noise in the front. I suspected that it was some large animal, so I took my father's bow from the wall and went to see what it was. I looked out of the window, and saw three men.

"I called my father, and he came out and took the bow from me. My mother and sister followed him into the front room. He told them to stay back as he opened the door, but little aid it would give them in the end.

"As I don't doubt you've guessed, these three men were some of those who my father had angered in the village. He'd said things about them that they didn't appreciate, and so they'd come to do something about it. I guess that they were more than a little drunk, for even men such as themselves wouldn't have done what they did, though they were ruffians and criminals." Here Éorlan paused, and rubbed his eye tiredly. "They killed both of my parents and took me and my sister. I would still be with them but for my spill out of their wagon--that's what gave me this limp." He stopped. "That's my story, lady. It's not a very good story, not with a happy ending or a moral like the stories we all asked to hear as children, but it is what it is, and whether anyone--least of all me--likes it or not I can't change it."

[ January 15, 2003: Message edited by: Orual ]

[Nurumaiel]

OOC: Bethberry, I'm editing my post and putting in more description as you asked. If I say something about the kitchen that isn't true (I expect you know your own kitchen best [img]smilies/wink.gif[/img]) then you may PM me and let me know. Thank you!

===============

Culoth paused for a moment to listen to Éorlan's story. Such sadness! His parents had been killed. Was there anyone in Rohan who did not have some terrible story to tell? Her father's tale... his mother... her grandmother... she had never known her grandmother. She had been killed. But it was by the cruel blades of fire, not by the hate of another man. Could anyone be as horrible as they were in Éorlan's story?

She hurried into the kitchen to do as Bethberry asked. Now, cooking was one thing, but cleaning up afterwards... that was another. Culoth despised housekeeping in every way, but being the only girl in her family, she had to do a lot of it.

The kitchen was rather large, but that came as no surprise to Culoth. It was a busy inn, where many meals must be made. She walked from cupboard to cupboard, opening each up, and seeing they were all as full as they could possibly be. There was a small fireplace where a fire was burning merrily, but soon it would die without being tended to. Next to the fire a few logs were piled up neatly.

Culoth first tended to the fire, and then found a large pot. Going out the kitchen door that led outside to a well, she filled the pot with water and then brought it back in, hanging it above the fire. She would need some hot water to do the dishes. She sorted out the dishes, looking curiously at Galadel the whole time. There was much she still wished to know about the daughter of Galadriel.

The water was now hot. Culoth set the pot down on the wooden table where the dishes were stacked, and set to work. Galadel did the same.

Maybe I can tell a tale after I finish here, Culoth thought. The story about my adventure with the orcs. She shuddered. But, no, my father never passed his gift for storytelling along to me. And I don't like to remember what happened to me.

Culoth gave a deep sigh, and started on the next stack of dishes, glad she had Galadel to keep her company. Well, if the daughter of Galadriel could do dishes, so could the daughter of a lowly man of Rohan.

"Galadel," she said rather shyly, "what brings you to Rohan?"

[ January 17, 2003: Message edited by: Nurumaiel ]

[doug*platypus]

The Dwarf Bard

An eerie whistle of the wind wound its way through the White Horse Inn, as the door opened to admit a weary and footsore dwarf. The chatter died down as most faces turned towards the newcomer. With a long, slow glance, he scanned the room, narrowing his eyes against the glare. Seemingly convinced of its worthiness, the dwarf reached his hand up to the inconveniently placed handle and pushed the door closed.

Having doffed his deep blue hood and cloak, the dwarf lifted up his arms, stretched and gave an almighty groan.

"Oh, that's better!" he said to noone at all, clearly glad to have his journey behind him. Seasoned traveller though he was, the leagues from Erebor to Edoras were a great many in number.

He strode around the room, looking here and there at tapestries and artefacts of Rohan; he had never been in the Riddermark until now. He paused when he came to a fresh piece of parchment on the wall, some kind of notice. The dwarf's eyes bulged as he scanned down the page, until he looked rather like some kind of fish, his lips blubbering in excitement. In true dwarvish fashion, he then glanced from side to side with a sneaky look, one eyebrow raised. Thinking himself (wrongly of course) unmarked by any, he then quickly tore the parchment off the wall! Folding it hastily, he tucked it away inside his tunic and turned to casually walk to the bar. Turned, that is, right into a table, and then onto the floor with a flailing and a clatter.

A large and ferocious mattock, such as the Dwarves of the Iron Hills used in battle, struck the floor with an almighty crash, and the purloined notice, a pouch of pipeweed, several pipes, a wooden recorder and numerous coins all launched themselves out of the poor dwarf's pockets.

"Ooh, ah, I see your notice has fallen down, miss! Here you go," he held it out as a very amused innkeeper approached. Inwardly praising the suave way he had handled the situation, the dwarf pushed his fallen belongings into a pile by the nearest stool and sat down as if this was what he had intended all along.

After a few minutes musing on the notice he had just read, the dwarf retrieved his recorder, and began a slow solemn tune. It was an old ballad of the Lonely Mountain, such as had been learned by rote by every dwarvish bard for many years now. Given the strangeness and unsurety of his surroundings, the dwarf bard started soft, but low and sweet. When he had gained the attention of several patrons, he gradually moved into the more usual form of the ballad, weaving the notes in and around each other as each verse echoed the last. The refrain he played throughout tugged gently at the hearts of all who listened to it. Even without a harp or viol, the music was able to stir the emotions of the listeners, to arouse in them a feeling for the magnificence of the deep places of the world, and the caverns of the dwarves of Erebor. No other dwarf kingdom save one had ever produced so many fine bards.

He played on until eventually the song ceased just as it had begun, blending back into the usual sounds of the inn. The dwarf sat in silence for a moment, unconscious of several approving looks directed his way. Then he lifted up his head and asked without hesitation as if from years of practice,

"Right then, who'll buy me a pint?"

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry shook her head in a vain attempt to wake up and trudged over to the large announcements board. This early in the morning, the Inn was usually very quiet, so it was a good time to accomplish chores, but that didn't make early mornings any more attractive.

Her first notice concerned the new thread which Mithadan has started about Rohan game proposals. It looked to be a very interesting thread, providing discussions of what a good game story is, so she was sure the patrons of The White Horse would want to check it out.

Making RPG proposals in Rohan (and The Shire)--a tutorial

"Well, one down," said the Innkeeper to herself. Now for a coffee before I place the other announcements.

[ January 22, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Hirilaelin]

The door to the inn opened. A woman, dressed in shades of grey, green and brown stepped inside, pushing the hood of her dusty cloak back.

Looking around, she did not see many people. At the bar sat a very thin and nervous looking young man, his eyes darting back and forth. Walking over, Hirilaelin sat down next to him.

"Something to drink please," she said, putting her pack next to her seat. Looking over at the young man, she smiled. "Hello," she greeted him.

Eorlan looked at the woman as she walked into the inn. When she sat down and said hello,he replied, in barely above a whisper, "Hello."

At his reply, Hiriaelin spoke again, holding out her hand. "My name is Hirilaelin, though most call me Hiri. I am a traveler, but hail from the North. Who may you be?"

[ January 22, 2003: Message edited by: Hirilaelin ]

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry watched the puffs of her breath form ice crystals on the window panes. The paint was peeling slightly around the frames; she would have to make a note for the spring cleaning, to paint the windows of the Inn. Come to think of it, she was acquiring a long list of things that needed to be done around the Inn. It was time she hired more help.

Walking to the announcements board, she wrote, in a large hand,

Help Wanted

Hobbit to help with small jobs around the Inn. Apply to the Innkeeper with a character and references.

Then she turned to the small group of recent guests at the table nearest the fire.

"My dear Dwarf-with-no-name, I know that Ballad of the Lonely Mountains. It has long been a favourite of mine. Will you play for your supper?"

"Hirilaelin, welcome to The Horse. We are quiet now, with several games running, but soon we expect a large crowd to gather as one game concludes. I might have to hire extra help for that party. Are you handy in a kitchen? Culoth will need help, now that Galadrel has been called away."

Bethberry then sat down beside Éorlan. "Such are the tales which we begin to hear of all too frequently these days in Rohan. How recent was this? Do you want to round up some of the patrons here, to track these murderers and find your sister? What plans would you have to propose?"

So saying, Bethberry signalled Fróma to bring ale to the guests, for tongues wagged faster when watered.

[Hirilaelin]

Hirilaelin turned in her seat, where she was talking to Bethberry, and said, "Certainly! I can cook quite well. Please tell me when the party will start, and I will be glad of any assistance I can give."

Bethberry thanked her and Hiri said, "Would you have anything to drink? I am quite thirsty from my travels! Also, could you tell me more about Rohan? Maybe where I could get a horse?"

[doug*platypus]

With measured grace, the innkeeper made her way around the assembled company, chatting to patrons and performing the myriad of tasks required to keep The White Horse running. As she neared the bard's tale she hailed him.

"My dear Dwarf-with-no-name, I know that Ballad of the Lonely Mountains. It has long been a favourite of mine. Will you play for your supper?"

Chuckling inwardly at the misnomer "Lonely Mountains", the bard was nevertheless pleased to find such fine treatment in a far land. Too often had he found strangers who were unfriendly to the dwarves for whatever reason. Sometimes this was because of the dwarves' own mistrust of the other races, but not in this one's case. Never a miner or a worker in stones or metals, and not strictly speaking a warrior, his profession was not always well regarded amongst his people. The bard could ill-afford to be picky of which races he associated with, and his travels had seen him make friends with many men or little-folk.

He mulled the suggested fee over for a few seconds, and then agreed to a meal and a pint of beer, as the price for the previous ballad and for another song or tale later. The innkeeper then moved on to the other guests. At the bar sat a very thin and nervous looking young man, who appeared to have some tale of woe. The dwarf listened in carefully as the innkeeper talked closely with him.

He managed to pick out the words, "Do you want to round up some of the patrons here, to track these murderers?" and as the innkeeper's glance strayed around the room, the dwarf developed a sudden interest in a richly carved rafter. Whistling casually, he continued to examine it until all chance of being singled out appeared to have passed. This week was, as it turned out, a most inconvenient one for him to be murdered in, and the dwarf was much more interested in the Search for the Book. He thought he would stay at the inn long enough to recover his vigour, and then head off immediately to join the quest.

One of the innkeeper's helpers shortly came around with a tray of ales. The dwarf's tired eyes lifted as he saw this, and he took one with a very hearty "thank you", trying not to seem rude for his reluctance to track down murderers.

[Bêthberry]

Chuckling at her dwarf patron, who would be welcome to stay as a non-combatant providing he sings and plays for his supper, Bethberry returned to her desk and found a clever missive from an old friend. It read:

Bethberry had just entered into the kitchen and began helping the cooks begin the cooking of the breakfasts for the many guests staying at Bethberry's fine Inn, The White Horse.
She smiled as she looked around at cooks working diligently and the cook hands rushing around the kitchen fetching spicies and other such ingredients and soon there was lovely smells of eggs and bacon sizzling in pans, bread baking in large ovens and the clanking as large canisters of milk were brought in by delivery boys.
Then she heard the flapping of wings and a beautiful falcon flew through the open door to the kitchen, startling a delivery boy carrying a canister of milk nearly making him drop it and landing on the back of a small chair sitting against the back wall near the chopping blocks. Tied to it's leg was a small parchment. Bethberry smiled knowingly and said quietly to the falcon stepping closer to it:

'Hello Wyrd...How have you fared?'

The falcon made a small noise and turned it's head sideways. Bethberry laughed, wiped her hands on her apron then took the parchment from the bird's leg. She untied the twine that held it together and unrolled it, it read:

Dear Bethberry,

I have been on one of my many wanderings and noticed you are the proprietor of a fine establishment named The White Horse . Upon inquiring around Edoras I found one was only to gain entry through the approval of the inn keeper herself, and in this way I found out you were the inn keeper.
So now I ask of you if I may be welcome in the White Horse and be able to write with and pit my wordsmith skills against those of this fine establishment. I hope you remember the old times of your stay at Minas Tirith and the adventure we started together with Gandalf The Grey, Orofacion Of The Vanyar and Madmartigan.

I hope to hear from you soon....Wyrd knows the way

Adanedhel

Bethberry put the parchment down on the table and absent mindly stroked Wyrd's head thinking over what the note had said......

"Now why would such a clever friend think he needs a special invitation?" thought the Innkeeper to herself. "Of course Adanedhel is welcome." She set off to write a reply in case he didn't see the one here.

[Adanedhel]

A tall blacked garbed stranger silently entered the inn of the White Horse. He was unremarkable with the exception of his height (A rather large 6ft 2”) He tipped back the cowl of his black cloak and ran his fingers through his thick dark hair then rubbed his stubbly chin ‘Time for a shave’ he thought to himself. He scanned the common room quickly as a hunter and mercenary does in unfamiliar territory, and found a seat near the rear of the inn. He un-slung his two handed sword from the baldric on his back and lent the sword against the edge of the table, out of the way but easy enough to reach if the situation arose which he both hoped and knew it wouldn’t.

He sat in the seat ordering only one pitcher of ale as he watched the patrons of the inn of the White Horse. He saw Bethberry but she was busy on other duties so she did not see Adanedhel sitting in the chair with his barely touched pitcher of ale. He smiled as he saw her again. It had been many a month since he had seen the healer. She had been traveling with Adanedhel and a company headed for Umbar on a mission of great importance until Bethberry had been taken ill. They had left her at Rivendell and then moved on none of which the company rarely saw within the walls of the white city of Minas Tirith.
He saw that she had recovered well from that and as well she should the incident being many months ago now.

Adanedhel sat a while longer and took no more than three sips of his ale then rose and strode purposefully towards Bethberry as she went towards a table with a plate stacked high with a patron’s breakfast. Adanedhel smiled one of his usual cheeky grins as Bethberry put the plate down for the man nodded politely then looked up to see who was walking towards her. At first she didn’t realize and she started to say:

’What can I do……’

She stopped mid-sentence and smiled one of her beautifully big smiles, one that made Adanedhel’s grin go even wider. He stopped a few feet away from her and bowed low:

’We meet again…..lovely Bethberry’

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Adanedhel ]

[Orual]

Do you want to round up some of the patrons here, to track these murderers and find your sister? What plans would you have to propose?

Éorlan looked up, startled at the offer. A flash of hope passed his face, then he quickly veiled it. He looked around the room, glancing hesitantly at each of the patrons. He shook his head wearily. "I am a stranger here. Would they be willing to aid me in my search? I don't doubt that these men want me dead, and won't look kindly upon any who are with me."

He sighed. "Please, don't get me wrong, I dearly wish to see my sister again, if she's even alive." Again he looked around the room, and his face softened. He looked back at Bethberry, his haggard face looking younger, but his wary eyes looking older. He laughed a little, and said, "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. Your offer was beyond my expectations. I only expected to come here and regain my strength. If any are willing, I will not turn down help.

"As for plans..." Éorlan's face fell, and he grinned dryly. "I have none at the moment. I think I know where they were headed, but I don't know what they did once they sobered. Perhaps they really hated my father enough to kill my sister. More likely they fled with her in terror of being caught." He dug into his pack and brought out several sheets of paper, his grey eyes showing a vigour and energy not previously present. "I'll sketch out the murderers, see if anyone knows them. Then--" He stopped suddenly, as though struck, and looked at Bethberry with a shy look. "I guess I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I?"

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Orual ]

[Bêthberry]

"Cheeky indeed you always have been, Adanedhel, and cheeky you remain," joked the Innkeeper, giving the young elf a quick hug of welcome. "I beg to remind you though, my dear young elf, that I do not do the dishes here, nor the serving. And I am ages older than you. Now, tell me, how have you been? Who have you danced with at the Polygon in my absence? Are you here to stay for some time? We would welcome a strong sword such as yours, for Edoras is come upon strange and difficult times." Suddenly, she stopped, realizing she had too many questions for her old companion in gaming.

While Bethberry waited for Adanehel to answer, she turned to Fróma and signalled him to bring a large ale to Hiri. "Hiri, your question brings up much sadness. We had many horses in our stable, some of which were for sale, but they were stolen, taken beneath our very eyes. We have not yet heard back from those who went out to recover the horses and deal the thieves their just measure for such adacity. Two doors down from the Inn you will find our blacksmith, Hrethric. He is a surly soul and much given to complaining about the state of his labours, but he should know where you can find a horse. See him later today, after lunch. He is often more content then." The Innkeeper then turned to Éorlan.

"Not at all, Éorlan. The sketches will be most helpful. I think we should find someone to take them to The Golden Hall. I wonder if Deorlin will be returning soon. He would be the ideal person for such a task."

[ January 25, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Adanedhel]

Adanedhel smiled and waited for Bethberry to finish with the other patrons she was talking to before answering her questions.
Yet again he scanned the Inn and when his focus returned to Bethberry she held sheets of parchment in her hand which had rough sketches of some surly looking men.

'Trouble in Edoras you say?'

Bethberry nodded and Adanedhel continued:

'Minas Tirith is holding up quite well, though the influx of new citizens is good it is creating more and more rubbish in my most favourite section of the city 'The Green Dragon'. There are the odd new citizen who was like yourself, much respected and respected the city and what it stood for'

Adanedhel sighed and his cheeky grin seemed to disappear all together

'but it seems they are a dying breed. There are some of course who keep the integrity of your gaming alive, seldom others keep the gaming at a high level'

He rubbed his chin stroking the stubble and a frown creased his features then he went on

'That is why I have wandered abroad and come here, as I have ventured here many times before'

A sudden thought struck him and he started talking quickly in his excitement but then just as quickly slowed down as he noticed that Bethberry had trouble understanding him

'I must sincerely apologize for not answering any of the messages you have sent me over the months. My visits here are very infrequent and I only got the messages not a week ago'

He bowed again and said in a sincere tone

'For this I am sincerely sorry and I am at your service'

He rose from the bow and the cheeky grin returned to his face as did the twinkle to his sapphire blue eyes then he said with a slight chuckle:

'As long as it isn't anything too strenuous………’

His face suddenly went serious and he said in low tones:

’What strange and difficult things are happening in Edoras?’

[ January 26, 2003: Message edited by: Adanedhel ]

[Hirilaelin]

"Stolen you say? Who would do such a thing? I had thought that the White Horse was a respectable place..."

"No, no, it usually is," Bethberry hurridly assured her. "This act was... An anomally. Usually it is a VERY respectable place, but this..." Hiri sipped her ale as Bethberry talked, savouring the taste of her ale. Hoping to take the worried innkeeper's mind off the stolen horses, she said, "This ale is excellent."

Bethberry seemed to brighten. "Thank you! Our ale is some of the finest in the city." "Yes, I do believe it is! Most excellent ale." But Bethberry's momentary brightness faded as her thoughts wandered back to the incident that had occurred.

Hiri took another sip, then said to Bethberry, "I was also wondering if there are any availible rooms? I might stay awhile here." She sipped the superb ale and looked at the various patrons, deepin conversation, or simply eating or drinking, as she waited for Bethberry's reply.

[Orual]

Éorlan took out two pencils and began quickly to sketch out a rough picture of the men. He bent over his work, one arm wrapped around the page as though to keep others from seeing it, and he was lost to the Inn for several minutes until he had satisfactory sketches in his hand--very good likenesses, even for Éorlan, who had spent much of his time as a child learning to draw.

He scowled at the drawings. Perhaps they were a little too much like the men, for him, at least. The faces on the paper seemed to leer at him, taunting him. He stopped himself from tearing them apart, but just barely.

He then turned to Bethberry, but she was talking, so he just slipped them under her hand and went back to his drink. He looked up at the ceiling, a strange smile on his face. What luck! He had truly never expected help...he had expected to recover here, and go to find his sister on his own. With companions, his chances of finding his sister rose by unforeseeable amounts. But would any come? He looked back down, grounding himself in reality. He was a stranger. No one knew him, or of him, or had any reason to care for his sister. He could not blame them if they did not choose to join him. But even the possibility...

With that happy thought in his mind, Éorlan smiled and sat back in his seat.

[doug*platypus]

Having finished his meal, the dwarf bard pushed his plate aside, and extracted his pipe from the mess of his belongings on the floor. He also stopped down there for long enough to put all his possessions back in order about his person, and to tie up a stray bootlace.

After a few minutes at the pipe, he drew a long draught from his tankard, and stood up where he was. The time had come to pay his fee. A bard by profession since he could ever remember, he made no apologies for the length of his story, and hoped that despite their troubles the patrons would be eager for a tale of the north. He had been put in mind of one about a book.


The Burning Book

"I will tell you now of the Burning Book; the ancient text of a powerful sorceror and mage of the Realm of Angmar.

"Nay! It is not the Witch-King himself I speak of, but one of his greatest servants. Although great, this sorceror had not the terrible power of the King of Angmar, and was but a vassal to him, having nothing of his own to command save his extraordinary talents. This sorceror's true name was long forgotten, but the Elves knew him as Gûl Carnen, the Red Sorceror, for his robes were red as a furnace fire, and his hands also. The Dwarves' name for him was not so pleasant. For many years, he aided the Kingdom of Angmar in its persecution of my people, the Longbeards. For the foes of Angmar, whatever the Elves may have you believe, were not only west of the Misty Mountains.

"It is said that this sorceror owed most of his power to one fiery tome in which many incantations of the ancient world were recorded. Indeed, the language of men which it was written in was even then forgotten to all but a few. The Witch-King could not have know it, or he would surely have taken the book, desiring no other sorceror but himself to hold power so great. But even had the Fell King been able to use it, he dared not approach the book, for the sight of its burning pages was as a smouldering brand in the heart to him. So he hated his lieutenant, and yet feared him nigh as much.

"For years, until he began to unlock the secrets of the Burning Book, the Red One used it only with great pain. For the pages of the book, by some ancient art, burned with a fierce fire and yet they were not harmed. Whatever was to touch the flaming leaves would be singed and seared terribly. The lure of the book was so strong to the sorceror, however, that he could not leave it alone, or lay it aside. Closed inside its binding of dragonhide, the mage carefully carried the book with him wherever he went. No spell he knew could be made to help him, and no golem he created could be manipulated to use the book for him. The book was no doubt enchanted to prevent enemies of its maker from using it. But its rightful owner had long ago gone to his grave, and the secret of its unlocking was lost. By supernatural powers of will and discipline, Gûl Carnen constrained his hands to fight through the horrible pain it took to turn the pages, and he began to learn its secrets.

"By and by the mage grew in power, and as he brought himself to turn each new page, though his hands and his face would burn until they bled, his knowledge increased. Eventually he found he no longer needed the hands that Ilúvatar had given him. Through a devilish spell gleaned from the Burning Book, he was able to recreate flesh and sinew when his own hands were finally destroyed. Ever after his hands looked perfect, but they glowed red and orange like hot coals. His face, though, he could not heal, and he was horribly scarred until the day he died.

"As has been said, the King of Angmar hated and feared his servant, the moreso as the Red One's power increased. He devised a plan to rid himself of the troublesome mage. At that time in the troubled lands of the north there still still lingered great fire drakes, remnants of the ancient world. Although fierce and independent, these creatures had throughout history ever been ready to the will of evil. The Witch-King desired their power to use against the Free Peoples of the north, and resolved to bring them under his dominion. Foolishly, for only one power has ever been able to sway a dragon against its will, and to parley with a dragon is madness. But in this reckless venture, the King of Angmar also saw a chance to rid himself of the Red Sorceror, whose knowledge and power was now advancing by the day. The Red One had long before cast away all his old scrolls and tomes, and everywhere he went, he would be seen clutching his precious spellbook, to the scorn of his fellows. He was often seen in those days at the forefront of battle with the Eldar, with the men of Arnor, or with the Dwarves. Standing tall in his red robes with The Burning Book open before him in his hand, it was said he would call down horrible portents of fire and stone from the heavens, or stir the spirits of the slain to spread mayhem across the field of battle.

"The Witch-King sent him now with a small company on his most difficult task yet, to persuade or to ensnare dragons to serve the ends of Angmar. The Red One accepted this task knowing that many hoped he would be destroyed rather than succeed. But he also knew that if he refused, the Kingdom would rise against him as a traitor, and he would be taken and slain since he had no army to command. Indeed he had no servants at all, for that was not his desire. He was a mage, a destroyer by fire and by fear, and he was above the rule of others, as others were below being ruled by him.

"As intended, the Red Sorceror did indeed meet his end in the wastes of the north. If you can believe such a strange tale, I may tell you that some of my own forefathers witnessed this, as they hid waiting to attack the men of Carn Dûm, having heard rumour of them from ravens. But my kin did not have the chance to draw blood. Gûl Carnen and his company were met by a huge winged fire drake, as they were encamped on the waste, weeks out from Angmar. The dwarves were preparing to attack as the sun rose to its zenith, when the unmistakeable flapping of immense wings was heard across the barren plains. The Red Sorceror strode out to meet the red-golden drake as it alighted. For hours they stood there facing each other, the mage in his fiery robes, Burning Book open in his hand, and the red-golden creature on its haunches, one of its huge unlidded eyes fixed on him. Not a word was uttered aloud in that time, but all who were watching knew the dragon and the man were communing with each other. The men of Angmar were stricken and afraid, and they stood outside their pavilions and tents unmoving. The dwarves could not be told apart from the grey stones about them, and barely did they even breathe.

"And then the strangest thing of all happened. The mage turned around, and suddenly after the hours of silence he spoke. He read aloud an incantation from the Burning Book, his right hand stretched out towards the men of Carn Dûm. They stood dumbfounded, still held under the spell of the dragon, whose wicked laughter now burst forth from the depths of his form. One by one, Gûl Carnen singed each man to the bone, leaving their charred remains on the ground where they fell. He razed the pavilions, and then, his energy spent, dropped his arms to his sides, staring straight ahead like a blind man. The tome of fire dropped on the stony ground beside him, falling so that it closed itself firmly. The great dragon lumbered up, slammed his spiky tail into the book, and flicked it neatly up and into his vast maw. The great beast swallowed, and spurted immense tongues of flame out of his nostrils until the fire of the book had been all expelled into the air. He then grasped the back of the still unmoving mage's robes in his teeth, picked him up off the ground, and flapping his wings began to spiral slowly up into the air and away north.

"After a while the dwarves regained their wits. When they were sure the dragon had gone, they searched through what was left of the men's camp. Nothing did they find there but twisted and melted metal, and singed bones. Having been robbed of their vengeance, they cursed once more the name of every dragon they had ever known, and made their way back the long leagues to Erebor. None could say for sure what happened to the sorceror, whether he was consumed, if he was spared, or if he was kept in torment for the pleasure of the vile beast. But to a dwarf, they ever after had nightmares of a Burning Book, and the laughter of the dragon."


Having finished, he ceased his walking about the room, and returned to finish his neglected beer. After exchanging pleasantries with those in the common room and with his gracious host, he retired to a room that she selected for him. He made up his mind to leave as soon as he woke up in the morning. We must away ere break of day and all that, he thought to himself with a smile as he turned in.

[Nurumaiel]

Culoth smiled satisfaction. All the dishes were done! Now she would head into the common room to listen to some tales and songs, and maybe even tell a few herself.

She went back into the common room and settled down at a table. Glancing about, she caught sight of Bethberry, but saw she was busy. Culoth knew she would have to be returning home soon to help her mother, but she hoped to hear something interesting before the left the inn.

[cole]

A Person in a black cloak walked in. He did not seem like a threat, after all he had no visible weapons and did not causing trouble.
On his back was a traveller's pack. Well worn and slightly battered. It was a faded brown color. He walked to a seat in the corner and sat down. He was evidently a newcomer. From far distance the man looked liked a naz^gul (because of the cloak). he reached into a pocket in his pack and pulled out a small canteen, he took a sip of the contents and put it back, with his hood still up the person sat there, face looked at the floor, possibly asleep, such a frightening person nobody would possibly speak to him so he would probably not speak to someone else.

[ January 28, 2003: Message edited by: cole ]

[ January 29, 2003: Message edited by: cole ]

[Nurumaiel]

Culoth looked at Éorlan curiously. He looked familiar, and his name sounded familiar as well. She wanted to go speak with him but felt very shy.

He saw her looking at him and gave her a very friendly smile which overcame her fears. She approached him and sat down next to him.

"Éorlan you said your name was?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Your name sounds familiar, and you look familiar. Might I ask... from where do you come?"

[Susan Delgado]

Susan made the trip from Gondor in near-record time, but she waas still late. By all rights, she should have been at the White Horse weeks ago. Well, she was here now, and Bethberry would have to be satisfied with it. She wouldn't be surprised to find herself mucking out stalls for a while, though. She probably derseved it, anyway.

The Inn was full of the usual rabble, some telling tales, some drinking or eating, some just sitting not doing anything. She glanced toward the bar, but Bethberry was speaking to some young Elves and hadn't noticed Susan's entrance. She approached the bar, not drawing attention to herself. The Innkeeper was busy and Susan was perfectly willing to postpone the anticipated explosion. After time, Bethberry noticed Susan standing near the bar, wearing a sheepish grin.

"Well, there you are at last. What took you so long?"

Susan consiidered for a few moments, thinking of all the things that had happened to her in Gondor. "I...was delayed."

"Delayed, uh-huh. Why don't you look around, get acquainted with the Inn, and I'll find you when I need you."

"All right." She went upstairs and deposited her pack in an empty room and came back downstairs to mingle, always keeping an eye on the Innkeeper.

[cole]

He pulled down his hood and sat back tired but thankful to be in a actual place that would accept him. His light blue eyes and dark blonde hair appeared from the gloom of the hood. he again took a drink from his canteen. Hoping to actually talk to someone now that he showed his face.(which was not a regular occurance when in strange territory)
This was a new place to him. he was from the far north, and travelling when the mood took him. He took off a weird glove from his right hand and massaged his fingers. It hurt to have the glove on but at least it helped to cover the scar and stopped people from asking questions.

[Kiara]

Enthralled by the ancient story of her kinsman, Parin (who had been sitting in the shadows nursing her seemingly eternal cold with wholesome chicken broth) sat gaping in wonder and awe. Her unfortunate spoon, though she did not notice it, so vision-filled was her little head, had slowly slipped to the wooden floor beneath her. The gentle clatter it had made was not enough to rouse her from her revery. But now, the retreating figure of the mysterious dwarf and the possibility of losing the opportunity to make his aquaintance grew slim. Yes, now she needed to act, or suffer the consequences of sloth.

Jumping up from her table, she nearly sent her bowl, contents and all, to the same dismal end as her spoon, but from some smile of fate, the bowl pirouetted once, twice, thrice, before settling calmly in the center of the table, as though ready for applause from the gathering in the room. But it remained, as she had been, unnoticed in the corner, until now....

"Master Dwarf, do you retire so soon? I would seek a word with you, if you would be so kind as to flatter a young dwarven maid's fancy. If it is fatigue you seek to ward off, may I offer you a coffee on me for your pains? I assure you, the black bean Bethberry uses for her brew is the finest I've tasted!"

This was received, however, by uproarious laughter in the dimly lighted inn, for as high and fine as her words sounded, she had not counted on the effect of her crowded sinuses....What they heard was this:

"Baster Dwawf, do you retiwe so soon? I would seek a wowd wid you, if you wouwd be so kide as do fladder a young dwarben maid'z fanzy. If id is fadigue you seek do wawd off, bay I offew you a coffee on me fow youw painz? I assuwe you, duh black beand Bedberry uses fow hew bwew is duh finesd I've tasded!"

Oh no!, she thought,Now he and everyone else is going to think I've been at the drink!

So, completely abashed, Parin began to slink back into her corner, amidst the continued chucklings of those around her....

Smith of the Word stood outside the inn called the White Horse, watching the fire from the window at the front of the inn, its warm light flickering against the pane of glass, and the people milling about inside. Smith debated with herself, unsure of whether or not she should enter the warm and inviting atmosphere. The cold wind of night swirled around her strong, comely frame, lifting her cloak and making it dance in the eddies created by its gust. The wind chilled Smith to the bone, and the fire within the White Horse seemed rather inviting. Faced with a choice between another night of cold wandering and a night seated by a warm fire, Smith opened the small wooden door and entered the inn.

The smells that bombarded Smith's senses brought a smile to her face: a roaring fire, mead and ale, roasted meat. Smith looked around, seeing none but strange faces and an empty seat near the fire. She strode across the room and took the seat, her large brown eyes keen and watchful of all that went on around her.

Her mind recalled a story that she remembered her grandfather telling her, a story of elves unlike her kin-elves that lived deep within Fangorn Forest. Her eyes switched from a keen awareness to a deep inward stare as she warmed herself by the fire and watched the scenes of the story play itself out in her mind.

[ January 29, 2003: Message edited by: Smith of the Word ]

[Orual]

Éorlan frowned, trying to dig up any memories of this person. None came. "I'm from the outskirts of Rohan," he replied, turning to look her in the eyes. "A homestead, to the northwest of Edoras. This is my first time in these parts--it was a long trip to any towns."

He looked at her carefully, desperately reaching back in his memory for anything that had to do with her. He just hoped that he didn't look rude as he stared intently at her face. Something passed his mind, then was gone. He looked down, frowned hard, then looked up again and smiled. "I seem to recall your face, but I don't know where I have seen you before. What is your name?"

Smith was startled out of her thoughts by a kind young man who approached her seated by the fire. "I am Smith of the Word, but most simply call me Smith," she smiled, answering the young man's question. "I am from north of here, and I was a long journey for me as well. What is your name, and how goes things in Rohan?"

[ January 29, 2003: Message edited by: Smith of the Word ]

[Nurumaiel]

"Culoth Luinloth Eluial," she replied promptly, once again deciding not to add 'Celeblhach.' "I used to live in Edoras, but now I live in a little home with just my family; nobody nearby."

She could see he did not recognize her. Indeed, she did not recognize him, but he seemed vaguely familiar to her somehow.

"Perhaps you have met my father, or maybe heard of him? He's a Rider for the Mark, and his name is Thoan. Or my uncle, Éonirth?"

A strand of Culoth's golden-red hair fell forward, and she brushed it impatiently back (she was always getting annoyed by her hair), then stopped. "If you've ever seen a girl of Rohan with hair that's more red than golden, that's me," she said with a grin. "Where my red hair came from, I do not know, but it's there all the same. That's where I got my name.

"So do the names of my father, Thoan, or my uncle Éonirth sound familiar to you? My mother is called Inres, and I have two brothers, Rochir and Mithgwath, as well. I'm just trying to think of anyone you might have seen, or met, before. You look so familiar but I cannot place you..."

Her voice trailed off and she smiled cheerfully at him, waiting for his answer.

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry sat beside Adanedhel, deep in conversation about shared adventures in the past and this new threat here in Edoras.

"Indeed, Adanedhel, the thieves entered Edoras itself, and took the horses from the Inn's very stable. We have not yet heard back from those who pursued. It is my understanding that The Golden Hall may start a special watch, but I know not for sure. Would you be willing to take up such employment here, if you will stay awhile?"

While Bethberry waited for the Dark Warrior to think of the offer, she thought back to the dwarf's tale of The Burning Book. He seemed to be anxious to leave, that dwarf did, yet his story lingered on in her memory. She wondered what more stories he could tell. Perhaps she could delay his departure, or at the very least, engage him in a promise to return.

Her attention was called away by the conversation which had developed among Culoth, Smith and Éorlan. It was good to see that developing. In the back of her mind, she hope that Deorlin would return soon with the horse pursuers and be able to take those drawings up to the Hall. Then she noticed the dark stranger and warily watched him for some time.

"Excuse me," she said to Adanedhel, "I just remembered something I must attend to."

So saying, the Innkeeper rose and approached Susan. "Susan, your worries merit a good-natured laugh. Your presence here, no matter how tardy, is quite appreciated. I wonder if you would keep an eye on that dark stranger we have here, the one with the gloved hand. Perhaps you could chat him up and see where lies his business? We would be wise to keep an eye on strangers, without troubling them grievously."

As she spoke, Bethberry glanced over at Hirilaelin, wondering how she was doing.

[Rochelle]

Lauromae dismounted from his silver companion. "Dartho Nienna" The mare stood patiently as the elf entered the inn. Quietly he looked around before he sat at one of the empty tables. He had left Mirkwood only this season and had not settled in one place for long since then.

His notable long, blonde hair hung loosely down his back. A full quiver was visible yet his bow still remained hidden. Eyes of almost lavender looked about the people then quickly through the glass to make sure Nienna was still in view. He trusted his mare, but this was a new land to him. He had not been here since the war of the ring when Theoden was king. He had been a friend to Rohan and he had been bestowed Quellë, a direct male descendent of Shadowfax. He smiled slightly, knowing the steed was with his daughter. She would be taken care of.

As of yet, he did not know where his path would lead him. His skills were sharp and he was still as active as he was when he had only seen twenty seasons. Perhaps he would join a govannas or perhaps he would move on to the lands of Gondor...

[Envinyatar]

He pulled his brown cape closer about him. It was colder here. He had forgotten. The birds had gone south, and he had followed them, their patterned forms against the sky, leading him on. Now he must return to his dwelling, leaving them to follow him.

Up the Harad Road he had trudged, taking the western fork to Pelargir. The South Road beckoned, leading him north. He hurried through Minas Anor, stopping only briefly at the great library there. Some drawings for the librarian, to place among the stacks.

Past the Grey Wood, he made his solitary way along the foot of the Ered Nimrais, the tap of his staff on the pathway ticking off the miles of the Great West Road. At the boundary of Gondor, he paused in Firien Wood, taking stock of the birds which had wintered there beneath the shelter of the trees and the watchful eye of Halfirien. Then, crossing into The Mark, he pushed on to the River Snowbourne.

It had grown even colder as he entered Edoras. The sign of The White Horse was a welcome sight. He paused at the door, looking for the owl he had seen here in previous travels, but he could not spy him. With a shrug, he pushed open the door to the Inn, and stepped inside, letting the air, warm from the fire and the bodies of the patrons, rush over him. He made his way, unobtrusively, to a table by the window, and sat down with a weary sigh.

A server brought him a small mug of spiced wine. The sweet, heady scent of it preceded the dark, heavy taste as it coursed warmly from lips to stomach. Just the thing to take the edge off the chill. He raised the mug again and sipped at it pleasurably.

A hot meal and a snug bed for the night, he thought, then he would press north, to Fangorn.

[ January 31, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]

[Hirilaelin]

Hiri sat at the bar, sipping her ale and looking about her. Everywhere in the inn, people were talking and drinking. Just then, she heard someone speaking.

"Baster Dwawf, do you retiwe so soon? I would seek a wowd wid you, if you wouwd be so kide as do fladder a young dwarben maid'z fanzy. If id is fadigue you seek do wawd off, bay I offew you a coffee on me fow youw painz? I assuwe you, duh black beand Bedberry uses fow hew bwew is duh finesd I've tasded!"

Hmph. Been at the brew to hard it seemed. People were laughing gaily at the slurred speech. But, as she looked harder at the speaker, she saw a young dwarvin maiden, embarrassed by all the uncomplementary attention she was recieveing. Strange. She didn't look drunk. Standing, she pushed her way through the crowd towards the maid, who was trying to fade away from all the laughter.

Finally fighting her way through the crowd to the dwarf, she spotted her sitting unhappily at a darkened corner table. Pushing back her cloak and sitting down, she introduced herself, "Greeting. My name is Hirilaelin, newly arrived here. Who may you be called?"

[cole]

Cole relaxed a bit in the seat. He asked a server for some ale. The drink would be better than the one that he has grown accustomed to drinking.

While waiting he sang a bit of one of his songs, in a small whisper to pass the time. Then he muttered."I wonder why none of these good people do not wish to speak to me, even the server was afraid for some reason."
So he waited.

[Orual]

Éorlan thought for a moment. "I believe my father did mention the name Thoan, and I think I may even have met your brother, Rochir...I knew I'd seen hair like your's before!" He laughed a little bit. The Inn was relaxing his tense nerves and relieving his grief. "Yes, if your brother is who I am thinking of, then I've certainly heard of you before. He spoke quite well of you." Éorlan paused for a moment, and a little flush rose to his face. "If I'm not mistaken, he's a little older than me, is he not? Well, I think that he thought that...eh, well..." Éorlan fumbled for words. "Well, I think that he thought that I might fancy meeting you." He laughed a little, hoping that he wasn't quite the vivid red colour that he was afraid he had turned.

Another young woman's voice broke in, and he wasn't sorry for the distraction. The discussion had taken an unfortunate turn, and he was quite embarrassed. "I am Smith of the Word, but most simply call me Smith," she said. "I am from north of here, and I was a long journey for me as well. What is your name, and how goes things in Rohan?"

Not being the most adept at manners, he briefly stammered his leave of Culoth and turned to face Smith. As he did, he wondered briefly what his father would say. Here he was, surrounded by lovely young women, all on his own. A grin flashed across his face as he imagined what his father would indeed say. "I am called Éorlan, and I come from the outskirts of Rohan, north and west of Edoras. I'm not quite sure how things go in Rohan, to be honest--I've spent the last few weeks trekking to this Inn to rest until I leave again." He smiled at Smith, then at Culoth (to make sure she didn't think that he was ignoring her) and sat back. It was a bit of an uncomfortable situation, trying to carry on two conversations, but he didn't really mind--he hadn't spoken with anyone in so long, it was a welcome release.

[ February 01, 2003: Message edited by: Orual ]