The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[piosenniel]

THE SCENE IN THE GREEN DRAGON INN'S FRONT YARD AT PRESENT . . .

It's a warm, sunny day in the Shire – late-afternoon.

All have gathered outdoors where the party is taking place.

The tables are groaning with the plenitude of food brought out to stave off hunger . . . most of the local Hobbit families have arrived, and all of them have brought a special dish or two to share at the party. The staff from the Inn has already brought out great platters of meats and cheeses and baskets of bread for sandwiches along with mustards of all sorts and pickles. Mushroom pasties, jam tarts, and cookies of all sorts.

The big cake that Cook has made for Derufin and Zimzi is now on the dessert table. It's four layers high, frosted in white, light frosting, with candied violets of all colors all over it. There is a line-up as guests come for a slice of it.

A number of the kegs have been tapped and tried, much to the satisfaction the thirsty crowds. For those who don't care for ale at the moment, there are pitchers of cold cider, tea, wine of all sorts, and of course, sweet, cold well water.

The three local grannies - Granny Chubb, Granny Oldbuck, and Granny Heathertoes have made their special punch – only for the women at the party. They are fending off, with their stout wooden stirring paddles, those bold lads who try to slip in and steal a taste.

Mayor Samwise and his wife, Rose, and a number of their brood (up to baby Daisy) are at the party. Ginger has most of the young ones in tow while Same conducts the handfasting ceremony. Rose is seated with a group of ladies and is delighted to have only the baby to look after.

Gil and his friends, Tomlin, Fallon, and Ferrin are playing and singing on the raised stage near the front of the Inn. They are intermittently joined by Falco Headstrong, Rasputina, Caity, Seamus, and Owen.

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The handfasting ceremony is now done.

Derufin and Zimzi are a proper couple.

They are mingling with their guests. The band is playing and any number of couples are dancing. Later, when it's dark, the little lights in the branches of the trees will be lit and there will be fireworks.

And there is food and drink, of course, flowing in abundance from the good folk of the Shire . . .

[piosenniel]

Please Note:

Tomorrow, Real Time, the time in the Shire will move forward to night . . .

~*~ Pio

[Arry]

Ferdy

‘G’wan, Ferdy,’ Gil urged him. ‘Get Ginger a piece of cake and a cup of cider. The boys and I will play a nice tune for you in a little while . . . you can ask her to dance . . . Shoo!’ He gave Ferdy a little nudge in the direction of the desserts . . .

Following Gil’s advice was easier said than done. Oh, to be sure, the getting of the cake was simple enough, he thought . . . a nice large slice with a number of the yellow candied violets on it . . . he fancied her in yellow, he thought, craning his neck once again to catch sight of her . . . she was pretty, like those tulips his Gammer liked to grow . . .

‘Cake, sir?’ one of the servers said prompting him out of his little daydream. Ferdy felt a flush creeping up his neck as he accepted the plate.

Now to grab a mug of cider from the drinks’ table. Luckily the neither the sight of the little pottery mug or the color of the liquid sent him into any flights of fancy . . . though, the mug was quite full when he picked it up and he sipped a bit off the top to keep it from spilling . . . a small smile creased his face as he thought it might be nice to kiss someone who’d just drunk some of this . . .

Cook was at the table, retrieving her own drink when she saw him. ‘Master Ferdy,’ she said, causing him to look up guiltily. ‘Enjoying the Inn’s fine cider? Made from the finest apples in the Shire.’ She took a sip of her own. ‘Enjoying the party?’

Well, here’s a pickle, he thought casting a quick glance to see where the object of his affection had gone off to – Cook is making small talk! Long planted manners got the best of him and he chatted with her for a few moments. Luckily, one of her dance partners, Ferdy could not recall the name, came to claim her.

With as swift a step as the bouncing liquid in the mug would allow, Ferdy made his way over to where Ginger stood. She had moved near the little platform where the band was playing and stood tapping her foot to the music. He was almost to her, when some bold lad offered her his hand and pulled her into the swirl of dancers.

Gil, noting his friend at the edge of the stage, shook his head . . .

[Primrose Bolger]

Minto is introduced to Caity . . .

Minto Chubb had asked her to dance. Not asked her, really, more like he just grabbed her hand and pulled her along. His family’s place edged on her family’s and they had been friends for many long years. He was like a big brother to her, but close enough in age that they got into and sometimes out of many scrapes together.

‘Got to help me, Ginger,’ he confided in a low voice as he maneuvered her to the other side of the dance area. He twirled her about once, then nodded toward a group of people standing on the edge of the dancing crowd. ‘See that lass over there? The one with the curly, sandy brown hair.’

Ginger made him slow down a bit and took a good long glance at the Hobbit he’d indicated. ‘Yessss?’ she prompted, wondering what he was up to.

‘Well, I was wondering if you knew who she was?’ Minto returned.

Looking him up and down, Ginger gave him a laugh and a nod of her head. ‘Well, I just might. But who is it wants to know?’

He wanted a dance with her, he told Ginger. Just hadn’t quite worked up the courage to ask her. And would Ginger mind introducing them. He put on his sweetest smile and grinned at her.

‘Her name is Caity,’ Ginger said, recalling when she’d come to the kitchen to ask about the notice for musicians for the party. ‘Caity Brandybuck, I think. She came to the Inn just before the party. Traveling . . . by herself.’ Ruby was an endless source of information and had shared the few tidbits she knew with the other workers in the Inn one night at supper. ‘Come one, then,’ she went on, pulling him off the dance area. Minto pulled her to a stop for a moment as he ran his fingers through his unruly mop of dark brown curls, tucked his tunic in neatly into his breeches, and took a deep breath.

Introductions were made, and after a few pleasant remarks were exchanged, Ginger withdrew, leaving Minto to his own devices. She walked slowly round the dance area and found Ferdy on the opposite edge of it, a plate of cake in his hands. A perplexed look on his face.

‘Ferdy?’ she said, stepping up behind him and tapping him on the back . . .

[THE Ka]

Rasputina had been relieved to just hear from Zimzi and Derufin that the gifts were lovely to them, and now she felt one quest complete. Now, the couple wished to know more about their compasses. They were unique to the outer world, for none of this kind had left her forest.

She explained that, these devices were unique with the owner and would only serve them and no other. The couple was concerned about, the fact that if their children inherited them would they serve them as well, or would their power die with them?

Rasputina hesited to answer. Very few of her people needed to pass on to their children these objects, for, when they ran from their burning lands to Eryn Vorn they had brought much or if not all of their mineral valuables in case they needed to trade with others. It never came to this and so, they were left with quite alot of free time and materials. Some though, wished to keep some of their older traditions and did not request a compass for a child but, passed theirs on.

At first, she explained, their children did not know how to use the compasses. They would not respond to their calls, or spin for them. Soon, by chance, some had come apon something interesting. The devices would not respond to some ways of communication but, they could be fooled to doing so. The compasses did not only read their dials but, also their owner's thoughts. If the children thought the destination, similar to how their parents would, the compasses would work. Soon, some of the more creative devised a ryme system that could be used by the children. Now, the children's parents still lived which helped greatly with their problem. To trick the devices to be used by their offspring, the parents all thought of an individual ryme, that the compass would come to identify with its owner and no one else. Now, the parents taught their children the ryme and as if they too were the owner's of the compasses, the devices would work for them just as well.

So, she told them, If they wished their children to come to own these compasses, they would first, have to think up their own ryme. Then, they would have to use it as much as they could when they sought direction. Then, they must only tell their children only what the ryme was. Thus, passing on the compasses without having to worry about it refusing their decendants.

They had also asked if her people lived close to the sea. She told them about her home. Eryn Vorn was a heavly wooded cape that stood out into the Great Sea south of the mouths of Baranduin. She did not mention her favorite cliff face - for some reason, she wanted to protect it's secret existance. She told how her people were forced to flee here because of the deforestation done by Numenoreans from Lond Daer and either side if the Gwathlo. Her kin thought kindly these people only so much, and on this matter they only could see the desire for power that Numenor lusted after. After this, few of her kin spoke of the event and gave thanks to the Valar and Eru for letting them survive. Even though, not all hope was lost, soon her people came to know 'The Dark Forest' as well as their old home and could think of no better land.

Now, Rasputina paused as her tale was done and waited for her listener's response...

[Envinyatar]

Listening to Rasputina’s story . . .

‘Rhymes,’ mused Zimzi. ‘I like that idea.’ She rolled the orb in the palm of her hand, thinking. ‘When I was young, my mother taught us the history of the lands around us and of our family by rhymes. It was very effective, especially for a dunderhead like me who could never remember the names of places, much less where they were, or why they were important.’ She tapped her fingers of her free hand on the table. ‘We can keep a journal as we use the compasses . . . yes, that would work.’

Derufin gave Zimzi’s hand a squeeze as Rasputina began to speak of the Numenoreans. He knew that many people’s history of injury does not diminish and that old grudges die hard even though ages have passed and the particulars of a story have faded. Zimzi’s family was from Forlindon, from a small place called strand near the haven of Forlond. In hazy strands of history, her family traced its way back to those who had fled eastward from Westernesse. It was a terrible thing to have happened to one’s people, to be pushed from one’s home by the greed of others.

Zimzi listened closely to Rasputina’s story, her heart heavy for old wrongs. And when the woman had finished speaking she was silent for a moment. ‘This is more than a gracious gift,’ she said, placing the compass on the table between the two of them. ‘From you and from your people to me and to my children yet to come. We will cherish them, Derufin and I. And perhaps someday we might have the pleasure of visiting your homeland. In truth, it really is not that far from here, is it?’

They passed a little while longer in pleasant conversation. Then the band began a song they had promised to play for the couple. ‘Come with us to the dance floor,’ Zimzi urged her. They are playing a circle dance . . . a fast moving one . . . lots of fun. Come join in if you will.’

Derufin stood, holding out his hand to Zimzi. ‘Yes, come,’ he said, nodding toward the dance floor . . . you needn’t have a partner . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

NOTICE OF TIME CHANGE IN THE INN

It is now late evening in the Shire. The sun has gone down. The stars are out, as well as a fat, pearly moon. The little lanterns have been lit that were hung in the trees about the yard.

Many of the families with children have headed home. But the younger crowd, as well as the older, unencumbered by little ones, are still at the Inn. It’s a quieter crowd with much sitting about with mugs, smoking pipes, and gossiping.

The little band is still playing and a number of the young ones are dancing.

~*~ Pio

[Encaitare]

Caity had been looking about for possible dance partners, but most of the lads her age were either already thus occupied, or partaking of the delicious cake. She had been hoping that maybe there would be someone standing upon the rim of the dancers as though he wanted to join in. She twirled a bit of hair about her finger as the song ended.

The next one, I'll ask someone, she thought. She then chided herself, Yes, but that's what you said the last song as well.

She was just about to get really irritated at her hesitance when two people approached her. One was a hobbit who Caity recognized as Ginger, and the other was a lad she did not know. Ginger was pulling him along by the hand; the dark-haired boy looked a tiny bit nervous.

"Hello; it's Caity Brandybuck, right?" said Ginger. Caity replied in assent. "Well," the other girl continued, "I don't think we've been properly introduced, so I'm Ginger Gamwich. This is my friend, Minto Chubb."

"Good evening," said Minto politely.

"Good evening," Caity returned. "It's a lovely party, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," said Ginger. "Just look at Miz Zimzi there; doesn't she look beautiful?" Caity and Minto said that they agreed. Then there was a moment of rather awkward silence, which Ginger finally broke. "Oh, I think I see Ferdy over there. It was nice to finally make your acquaintance, Caity!" With that, she was off, heading in the direction of a hobbit holding a piece of cake.

"So, er... do you know the couple?" said Minto, trying to make conversation.

"Actually, not at all," responded Caity with a wry smile. "I only came because I heard that the band needed an extra member."

"I heard your song before," Minto told her. "It was very pretty."

Caity blushed, then realized that she was blushing, which probably only caused her cheeks to redden more. "Thank you, that's so kind of you to say."

As a new song began, Minto asked, "Would you like to dance?" Caity happily accepted and they stepped into the group of dancers and swept along as the band played and sang:

In the woods there grew a tree
A fine, fine tree was he

On that tree there was a limb
And on that limb there was a branch
On that branch there was a nest
And in that nest there was an egg

In that egg there was a bird
And from that bird a feather came
Of that feather was a bed
On that bed there was a girl

And with that girl there was a man
And from the twain there was a boy
From that boy there was a man
And for that man there was a grave
On that grave there grew a tree

[Child of the 7th Age]

Hawthorne sat and watched as the dancers twirled across the floor, her right foot tapping rhythmically in response to the spritely beat. The evening had been joyous. Zimzi and Derufin were so clearly in love that it was impossible not to be happy for them. A few hours before, she had sprung atop a table and vigorously danced the Springel-ring with one of the local lads, but now she was content to watch quietly while reflecting on everything that had happened that day. At least she had not disgraced herself. She had assisted with the party preparations and the Inn was still standing, which was a great deal better than the last time she'd visited.

After the handfasting ceremony, she had chased away a few rascals from the wagon bed who were attempting to remove the canvas in order to pry inside where the toys were hidden. Later, she and Mayor Samwise had passed out these presents to all the children who had come. There had been a vast array of mathoms to distribute: little metal cows that "mooed" when you yanked on their tails, young hobbit dolls that looked so lifelike you half expected them to cry, tambourines with jingling bells and long winding ribbons, along with a number of hobbit-sized fiddles and horns, and an assortment of intricately carved wooden figures. The latter were mostly representations of Elves. Hawthorne wondered where these had come from, since they didn't seem to be the sort of thing a dwarf craftsman would attempt. One of these figures, a representation of an Elf maid with flowing skirts and gentle face, had looked so lovely that Hawthorne had tucked it into the pocket of her skirt.

The children had hooted and hollered and tussled a bit over who got what until Mayor Samwise had stepped in to control the situation with a kind but firm hand. Everyone had finally agreed to behave and shake hands. Now the children were off in clustered groups, playing with their toys on the floor of the Common Room and on the steps that led up to the Inn's front door.

Hawthorne knew that the large cuckoo clock was still in the back of the wagon. She had decided to wait until the next day to present it to the couple. There were so many well wishers crowding about Zimzi and Derufin, and so many presents to be handed to the couple that it seemed better to wait for a quieter time.

The party was still lively, but a few of the families with younger children had left. They had collected their capes and hats as well as their little ones, along with the now empty dishes that they'd brought with them for the supper, waving good night to the other guests. Hawthorne stood up, stretched and yawned, wondering if she should cut short her celebration and turn in upstairs. Her thoughts were interrupted by the approach of two young lads who tugged insistently on her sleeve.

"You must go with us. Now!," one lad urged her. "Come to the wagon. You have to see."

She shook her head and laughed, thinking the boys were hoping to get some additional mathoms that had been left behind in the wagon. "No luck, lads. Sorry, but all the toys have been given out. I know the clock is still there. But that is for our young couple."

"It's not toys," the older of the two insisted. "It's a lass. Not a young lass, but a missus, though a tiny sprig of a thing even for a hobbit. More like my mother, actually. And she seems addled."

Intrigued by this description and wondering what was going on, Hawthorne sprinted out to the stables where the wagon was parked. From across the yard, she could see that one corner of the canvas had been thrown back to reveal a shadowy figure, a hobbit on her knees who was grabbing onto the side of the wagon, and wobbily trying to pull herself up. Whoever the stranger was, she made one last mighty effort and then failed, sinking back into the straw, apparently unconscious, and narrowly missing hitting her head on the clock.

"Quick," yelled Hawthorne to the hobbit at her side. "Go inside, and have one of the big folk or the older hobbits come and help. Perhaps the stranger's hurt or sick. I need someone to help me get her inside the Inn."

With that the lads took off.

[Arry]

Andwise and Otho to the rescue . . .

‘So you’re from Tuckburrough, are you?’ Andwise Banks dipped his pipe into the old leather pouch he used for pipeweed, then offered it to his new acquaintance. The two men were silent for a moment as they went through the ritual of tamping and lighting the pipes to their satisfaction. Soon little orange glows and wraithlike smoke punctuated the shadows about the table where the two Hobbits sat.

‘Aye,’ returned Otho Bracegirdle, picking up the conversation. ‘That’s where I hang my hat when I’m home. But much of the time I’m traveling the Shire, far as Bree, too. Trading in spices and herbs and that sort of thing. That’s how I got to know dear Vinca,’ he said fondly, nodding toward where Cook stood talking with a few of her lady friends.

Andwise smoothed out his face at the fond mention of Cook by Otho. He, too, admired Cook, but truth be told, the woman was quite formidable in his estimation. He barely stopped himself from saying, ‘Good luck on that one!’

The spoke about inconsequential things, trading little stories of this and that. Mostly they just enjoyed the small pleasures of someone to chat with, a good pipe to smoke, and a fresh mug of ale to please the tongue and tingle the toes with its drinking.

Otho had just offered his pouch of tobacco for a second pipeful when two young lads came running pell-mell from the side of the Inn and stopped, gasping, at his and Andwise’s table. ‘Here, now, lads,’ said Andwise recognizing the two boys. ‘What’s got the wind up you?’

In fits and wheezes and excited gesturings it was learned that someone had been found in the stable . . . a Hobbit lady . . . ‘No sir, dunno who it is. But Miz Hawthorne’s sent us to fetch someone to help get her into the Inn.’ Andwise raised his brows at Otho and the two of them walked quickly back to the stables.

As they had been told, Hawthorne was there, chafing the hand of the Hobbit who had fainted dead away. The poor thing’s eyelids fluttered but did not open and she looked so pale. The two men eased her onto one of the horse blankets, and grabbing the ends, carried her as gently as they could in the sling. ‘Let’s bring her into the kitchen,’ huffed Andwise as they carried her up the front steps and into the common room.

The two lads were dispatched to get a nice warm blanket from one of the servers while Hawthorne and the men propped the lady in Cook’s wingback chair, her feet resting on the hearth of the small fireplace.

‘Otho,’ said Andwise, as they stood looking at the woman now wrapped in a blanket. ‘Perhaps you had better fetch Cook . . .’

[littlemanpoet]

Derufin felt the stone warm at his breast. Next moment, he received a tap on the shoulder. He turned to see Uien smiling at him. Behind her was Falowik, flushing a dark shade of crimson. She was certainly the forward one of the two. That probably would never change.

"About that dance you promised me, Master Derufin."

"It would be an honor." Derufin looked to Zimzi, then to Falowik.

The Bree man straightened and offered his hand to the bride. "Lady? It would be an honor if you would dance with me."

Zimzi laughed. "Where did you learn such fancy speech?" Falowik colored, but smiled, and the two ladies glided on the arms of their partners.

It was a folk song, quick of rhythm and light of heart. The dance was quick and hearty too. Falowik forgot himself in the fun of it. The tinumir at their throats were warm, if they noticed in the vigor of the dance, and the light within danced, as fast as their steps, from rune to rune.

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger was enjoying herself immensely. Ferdy had finally unlocked his tongue and found the words to ask her for a dance. A safe enough line dance for the two of them . . . he bowed, she picked up her skirt a bit and bowed back. There was twirling and mirroring each others steps in time with the other dancers in the line. And of course the shy smiles as they caught each other’s eye . . . and the holding of hands as they ran between the lines of dancers to take their places at the other end. She could see Caity and Minto, a wide smile on his face, dancing in one of the other lines.

From the corner of her eye she caught the commotion as two Hobbits carrying something in a sling trudged up the Inn steps at a quick pace. ‘Isn’t that your Da?’ asked Ginger.

Ferdy took a quick look, dancing was not one of his better skills and he really did have to concentrate. ‘It is,’ he said, his forehead wrinkled.

‘Shall we go see if we can help,’ she asked. Ferdy’s face fell a bit. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘they do look like they have it well under control. And, oh look, there goes Cook.’

‘She’ll sort it out,’ said Ferdy. He took Ginger’s hand, though it wasn’t part of the dance pattern at that point. ‘Let’s just dance. The older folk can take care of the problem.’

Ginger slipped her hand from his after a few moments then grinned and curtsied and turned her mind back to dancing . . .

[Nurumaiel]

Marigold clapped her hands in time to the lively music, watching the dancers with wide, wistful eyes. Falco Headstrong had been playing his whistle, but when he glanced at her, a thought occurred to him, and he went to her. "Well now, Miss Marigold," he said, smiling down at her. "Why aren't you dancing?"

"I can't dance by myself," said Marigold, "and I'm only a little girl. Nobody would ask me to dance. But don't worry... I'm enjoying myself by just sitting here and watching." But she sighed a little, and he heard it.

"But you've dressed up so pretty, with your little curls in ribbons," said Falco. "Surely you want to dance. 'Twould be a shame if that blue skirt of yours didn't get to twirl about a little." The whistle went into his pocket, and he bowed. "I haven't danced in some time," he said, "but I think I remember how to do it yet. And I won't be letting any pretty girl sit out."

Marigold looked up at him with a delighted, slightly doubtful expression. Would he really dance with her? He was so much taller than she. Wouldn't it be awkward? Would he mind? No, he didn't mind! She sprang up from the grass and took his hands eagerly. And then, slowly and stiffly at first, they began to dance. Falco struggled to remember at least the basics. She had no set way of dance, but there was certainly a rhyme and rythmn to her little flitting feet, and it was not long before he had recalled completely how to dance. Maybe they did look awkward, the tall, gray-haired old hobbit dancing with the small golden lassie, but they were enjoying themselves immensely, and that was all that really mattered.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling and Mithalwen had spent the afternoon together watching the festivities and speaking from time to time of the lands that they had travelled through. While the Elf’s knowledge was deeper, Snaveling’s was wider for he had travelled more than she, in the latter days of the world’s age at least, and he was able to tell her much of the comings and goings of the lands to the south and the north. For her part, the Elf told Snaveling of her realm and at his entreaties had told him more of her meeting with the Faithful after their arrival upon the winds of storm and ruin. Several times during her narrative Mithalwen paused and looked at Snaveling as though expecting him to speak of his own interest in these histories, but the more the Man heard the more he became reluctant to speak of his identity, for the Elf’s admiration of those who came with Elendil was such that he felt sure she would not relish of the truth of Snaveling’s ancestry. Mithalwen could sense his reluctance and did not press, but both knew that a time would come when he would answer her unspoken enquiries.

Afternoon gave way to evening and the shadows grew about them both. The night came down, isolating the party-goers who remained into smaller groups about the lights that were brought out to the yard. Some people began to move inside the Inn, and Mithalwen asked if Snaveling wished to go in as well, but the thought of seeing Aman kept the Man outdoors, and Mithalwen stayed with him. They sat in silence for a time before the Elf turned her ageless eyes upon him and said directly, “You are avoiding the Innkeeper.”

“Yes,” Snaveling replied. “I do not do so from reluctance or dislike, but from cowardice. There is a conversation that I must have with the girl, and it is one that I fear will cause her pain and me…discomfort. I should not say more, however, until I have spoken with her. I owe her a great debt of gratitude.”

“You have alluded to such things this day, Tar-Corondir, and to a number of other such mysteries. I would know what it is that you have kept silent. I do not wish to make you break your secrets to me, and I would not ask if I did not see already that you are willing to lay most – if not all – of your story before me.”

Snaveling sighed. At last, it seemed, the moment had come. He looked away from the disturbingly open eyes of the Elf and gazed instead into the black heart of a torch’s flame. He stayed that way for a long time, and she was content to let him remain that way. When he did speak he did so as though in part to himself. “Twice before I have been to this Inn, but it was the first visit that has determined the course of my life. When I arrived I was but a vagabond and a rogue. I committed such crimes as I am ashamed to speak of now. I have been counselled by folk of greater wisdom to let the past remain in the past, so I shall not horrify you with a detailed account of my crimes, but they reached even to the highest: robbery, treachery…even attempted murder. The folk here quickly realised who and what I was, but rather than sending me forth into the world an outcast and a criminal, they took me in and tried to help me, even in the extremity of my distress.” As he spoke the faces of his friends returned to his mind’s eye: Tobias, Galadel, Aman…Roa. He felt Mithalwen’s eyes upon him as he thought of the Ranger woman, and so he answered her wordless question. “One of them, who had the greatest cause against me, showed me justice and mercy, and for that I gave to her my eternal gratitude and fidelity. I shall not bore you with the story of unrequited affection, but because of how I feel for her, she fled Minas Tirith, where we had travelled together so that I might receive judgement from her King. I have come north to seek for her.”

Snaveling fell silent, but Mithalwen said. “You have not told me all. You speak of who you were and why you are here, but you do not say who you are, or what you have become.”

“No, lady, for I fear what you might think of me when you learn the truth. I have already told you that I am of Numenor, but that I cannot account myself among the Dunedain, by whom I mean those who came to Middle-earth with Elendil and his sons. My ancestry is from an altogether different line.” He paused before the plunge. “When I first came to this place I was ignorant of my heritage, but by tokens that I had with me at the time, my friends were able to determine my descent. I have since spent much time with the lore masters of Gondor and they have been able to search out the full truth of my tale. Before the destruction of Numenor, the King sent his nephew to oversee those lands to the south of Gondor that still owed direct allegiance to the Numenorean crown. He was in these lands when his uncle sailed into the West, ensuring the destruction of his realm. The nephew, now the king of a vanished realm, sought refuge with his companions among the simple folk who live between the White Mountains and the Sea. There, they hid from the Faithful and plotted for the day when they could reclaim their sovereignty. But they soon dwindled, and their hopes were lost. Long the line went quiet, and all tokens and even memory of their greatness and of their aspirations were lost. But among some of my people there remained heirlooms of that time, and for some, the blood of Numenor ran true. I am one such person, for I stand in direct descent from the king’s nephew, and by some trick of fate or circumstance, in me is reborn the likeness of that nephew. His name was Tar-Corondir, and it is for him that I was named, though I knew it not, for the ancient language of my people was so broken and debased that the name I am known by – Snaveling – is but an echo of my great progenitor’s.” He turned to look at Mithalwen, as though to gauge her reaction to what he said next. “You see then, lady, why I feared telling you all the truth about me, for I am the last king of now-vanished Numenor, and therefore I am chief among those now called the Black Numenoreans, who allied themselves to Sauron in the Dark Days, and from whose ranks the Dark Lord found his most terrible servants.”

[THE Ka]

Rasputina if she could remember, (and she finally did) that she rarely danced and that she did not like to partake in the act of it. Did that make her strange from her kin who, found dancing a worthy activity to pass time. She would roll her eyes at this and continue to practice her cello. When her mother had wished to teach how to walk, she would also teach Rasputina how to dance and how all steps were free to expression. She had love this when she was very young, being nothing more than a wild child she would skip, hop, trot, spin and whatever else she felt like as she walked through the forest. When she had been given her one and only cello, she soon was swept up in a new passion much forgetting her old passion.

Now, the old memories arose themselves upon her. She watched these people dancing, in their neat, orderly and moralistic way to fit the tune of the music. She never could do this and she never wanted to. Her form of dancing expression was utterly 'uncivilized' compared to these people's. She could just imagine it - nice little circles of people spinning ever so orderly then she wouls start, and the circles would be cast about. Literally a heathen amongst angels. She was scared. She did not know how to dance, and that was that.

She was reluctant to dispose this information to Derufin. How would he or anyone else take such a gesture?

Summing up some courage, she walked over to him, and wispered into his ear about her dancing history...

[piosenniel]

Cook comes to see what’s going on in the kitchen . . .

‘Oh, my stars and garters,’ murmured Cook. Her eyes had caught the smiling face of Otho Bracegirdle as he puffed himself toward her at a run. The band, she noted, had just struck up another spirited song, and here she stood her arches aching from the last round of dancing with Otho. Toes too, unfortunately. He was a determined dancer, Mr. Bracegirdle was. She snorted at her little jest. Determined to step on my toes . . . every one of them!

The ladies standing with her pursed their lips, a few arching their brows, as they saw Otho, who was now waving wildly at Cook to catch her attention. ‘Give up, Vinca!’ chuckled Miz Elderberry from Frogmorton. ‘I see you looking for a convenient tree to hide behind. But he’s got you in his sights. Give the poor man a smile.’

Otho was oblivious to the fact he had been the object of discussion as he halted in front of Cook, trying to catch his breath. ‘Come quickly, Miz Bunce,’ he implored her. Cook began to demur, protesting that she was just too tired for another dance and perhaps he should ask another. She hooked her arm through Miz Elderberry’s and pulled the surprised Hobbit close up to her. Otho stared from one to the other, his mouth gawping. ‘Begging your pardon, Miz Elderberry, but it’s not about dancing.’ He turned back to Cook. Miz Hawthorne’s sent me for you. There’s a strange Hobbit lady what’s fainted dead away in the stable. Well, we’ve brought her into the kitchen . . . and she’s still seeming rather feeble.’

Cook excused herself from the ladies, who followed along anyway, and hurried back to the Inn’s kitchen. She spied the little tableau clustered about the pale little figure in the wing chair. ‘Miz Hawthorne!’ Cook's voice rang out across the lessening distance between her and the rescuers. ‘What’s this going on in my kitchen?’

[Witch_Queen]

Avalon

Avalon looked at the dwarf. She knew that there would be no finding Cree now. "I'm sorry but there is no finding Cree now. She ran off with a cursed elf, she ran off to her death." Avalon looked around, the party was what she considered over with. Noticing that a few crumbs had been left on the ground Avalon decided it was now time to eat. Quickly devouring the crumbs Avalon nearly choked on one large piece of meat. "Opps."

"No, I fear Cree is far to gone for me to get her back. Cree is gone and now it is time for me to live up to my families reputation. Is it alright if I accompany you on your journeys? I won't get in the way. I owe it to my grandfather."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Dwaline bowed low and then looked at the bird who was perched once again on the fence. The night seemed to run a chill though Dwalin's bones, but all the same he smiled at Avalon.

"I would be honoured if you would accompany me," he said, "I have missed good companionship in all my long years of travelling." He offered her some of the meat he found on a near by table. Avalon ate it happily and looked up at him as he chuckled to himself with happy memories.

"i plan to get back to my home at the Lonely mountain," he explained, "I think you would enjoy it there. For there were when I left, a family of White crows whom I am sure would be friend you and welcome you to their society. I shall introduce you to your kin, family of Nelek and Rark." Avalon socked her head to one side, she had no expected this. She had never seen any white crows but herself. Should she look forward to this? Or dread it?

[Mithalwen]

When Sanveling met her calm gaze, there was only compassion in Mithalwen's clear grey eyes.

"If I were to think ill of you, Tar-Corondir, it would be for your own wrong doings not those of your ancestors. Your crimes were forgiven you and your kinsman the Lord Elessar has not shunned you - though since you went to Minas Tirith for judgement, I trust you are here by his leave and have not fled his justice.

To take the doom of one's ascendants upon oneself is folly - as even the greatest of my kindred have proved. Perhaps greater folly for the atani. For the Eldar, we change little in ourselves and as we are so we tend to remain, but the second born have a power to shape their destiny and so I say to you, it is the choices that you will make that will have greater force than your heritage.

I know not, if you seek this woman to make peace with her, or because you yet hope she will return your affection. Do not despair but continue in your search, for one may flee from something that in truth is desired, lacking courage to accept it and the consequences - and one may regret it even for an age of the world" The elf's eyes suddenly became too bright and she lowered her head, letting a curtain of silver hair fall between her and Snaveling's gaze.

[Envinyatar]

‘From what I’ve seen, during my stay in the Shire, is that folk here are fairly accepting of things.’ He motioned with his hand to the line dancing that couples were doing to the music and to those other couples who were simply dancing in pairs, enjoying each others company. And here and there were single individuals who moved in their own way to the band’s rhythms. ‘I would say that as long as you don’t make a habit of knocking folk over, you’re welcome to enjoy the music in your own way.’ He waved his hand toward the dance area. ‘So, please, come and join the others if you wish.’

Zimzi had come up, and was smiling at Rasputina, even as she urged Derufin back to the dance. ‘Yes, please do,’ she said. ‘It’s all for fun and the pleasure of our guests.’

Derufin motioned once again to Rasputina, then was pulled harder by Zimzi. ‘You’ve left poor Uien standing by herself,’ she chided, laughing. ‘And poor Falowik has had to dance with both of us while you were gone.’

[littlemanpoet]

Falowik colored mightily, standing between Zimzi and Derufin as if they made a threesome! The jewel on his chest was warm, but he did not wish to learn who was thinking of whom at the moment. He took a deep breath, faced Derufin, and said, "You shall have all the time you want with your bride later, my friend, but for this dance, she is mine." Derufin's eyes positively jumped open; a slow grin followed. Falowik placed his forearm upon Derufin's chest and leaned him back a step, facing Zimzi again, who was trying hard not to burst out laughing at her husband's expense.

"Hah!" Derufin grinned. "I'm off to Uien, then, and you shall have to win her back from me!"

The music picked up its pace and the dancers slipped back into the rhythm, smiling to see an old hobbit with the wee lass, matching step to step.

[THE Ka]

Rasputina wasn't relieved - though, she should had been. She could just see herself, tromping down these poor people! Suppositely elves were to be 'graceful'... Rasputina couldn't help but to crack a smile at this. What a joke!

Rasputina got herself ready as the band began a song which was enigmatic in a way, pulling at the dancer's ears as well as their motions. She walked over to the dance area and began to spin slowly at first, to the melody. Soon, she found herself back with her old passion - the dance of the wild elve! Twisting this way and that, she was wild but, also warry of those around her as to not trample them in the process. She seemed to be almost blind to everyone else and oddly - she didn't care at all. Small strides, circles and square crosses, she moved about as if pushed by the notes dancing in the air. She had never been this happy and bursting with joy in such a long time. How could she had forgotten this?

[Envinyatar]

Derufin’s eyes were on Zimzi as she danced with Falowik. Not from jealousy, but simply because he liked to look at her. She was small in size, her head tipping up toward the man as he spoke to her. Something funny, he thought, seeing her lips curve up in a smile. Side by side they moved, Falowik’s left arm about her waist, her right hand held in his, her left hand picking up her skirt at the side and swirling it back and forth as they stepped forward and back and forward once again.

Uien and he moved in the same pattern. She was like some bird, he thought, moving lightly through the steps of the dance, her small light bones barely tied to the earth. He thought once, when he twirled her about, that if he did not anchor her, she would fly away. Memories unbidden rose when they passed from the soft light the little lanterns threw to a shadowed area. Uien’s hair, golden in the light, darkened, and for a space of time, he wondered if this would be what it were like to have danced with the other one . . .the Elda that had first offered her friendship and leant him some small measure of hope. His thoughts drifted to another, then, now long dead . . .

Uien gasped as he held her hand too tightly. He eased his grasp, as they passed back into the welcoming circle of light from the next set of lanterns.

‘Sorry, little one,’ he murmured to her, slipping into an old familiar name for her. ‘Old memories . . . and now they’ve passed.’ He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them lightly. ‘We are a lucky pair are we not,’ he said, lifting his chin to where Falowik and Zimzi were dancing. ‘Come let us join them. The song is nearly over. We should claim our partners for the new.’ Uien looked closely at him, her mouthed curved in a soft smile, as they walked along, hand in hand. Her eyes darted toward Falowik, a welcoming glint dancing in them. Derufin’s eyes were all for Zimzi. He drank her in with them.

‘Last dance, then,’ Zimzi said, extending her hand to him as he reached her. He drew her close, tucking her gently against him . . .

At the first strokes of the fiddle bow
the dancers rise from their seats.
The dance begins to shape itself
in the crowd, as couples join,
and couples join couples, their movements
together lightening their feet.
They move in the ancient circle
of the dance. The dance and the song
call each other into being. Soon
they are one – rapt in a single
rapture, so that even the night
has its clarity, and time
is the wheel that brings it round.

In this rapture the dead return.
Sorrow is gone from them.
They are light, they step
into the steps of the living
and turn with them in the dance
in the sweet enclosure
of the song, and timeless
is the wheel that brings it round.

---------------

-- Wendell Berry; The Wheel

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Oh, no, Cook. We're not up to mischief. The boys called me out to the wagon. There was a lady, a strange lady. When we reached the courtyard, she fainted dead away." Hawthorn pointed over at the woman who now lay sprawling in the wing chair.

As leary as Hawthorn was of Cook's booming voice, she was even more curious about who this stranger was. Steeling herself for an expected reprimand from Cook, she rushed over to the stranger's side, kneeling down beside the chair. Instinctively, she reached out with her hand to comfort the woman, and also to push the thick mop of curls out of the way so that she could clearly see her features. The stranger was a tiny thing, even for a hobbit. Her face was pale and wan, her clothing little more than a bundle of dirty rags. There were blue hollows under her eyes, and a wrinkle or two creased her face. Her frame was so slender that it looked as if a good wind could blow her away. Hawthorn could see that what had once been a mane of flaming red hair was now grey with tinges of white. It was also throughly bedraggled.

"Oh, my," gasped the tweener, "She's old. Maybe she's dead." Hawthorne poked her finger into the hobbit's ribcage to see if the body would respond.

Cook quickly put a stop to that. "Old, my foot, Hawthorn Brandybuck! Whoever she is, she's no more than seventy. She has a few good years left in her, if we can help her tidy up." Cook shook her head and looked appropriately stern. It was typical of a sweet tweener blunderhead like Hawthorne to think that a hobbit of seventy had one foot in the grave. But it did seem strange that someone of this sort would be wandering around by herself hidden in the back of a wagon.

By now, a considerable crowd of onlookers had gathered, mostly hobbits attending the party who were curious about who this stranger might be. Cook shot a sharp glance to the mob crowding into her kitchen, noting, "Out of here, now. But, before you leave, can anyone kindly tell me who this missus is? "

Hobbits know other hobbits extremely well, especially since so many of them are related. It would be very rare for a hobbit to visit the Inn and not be recognized by at least one of their distant kin or neighbors. Yet, one-by-one, each hobbit admitted they had no idea who the stranger was. Even old Granny, who made a point to keep track of such things, swore she had never seen the woman before.

At this point the tiny stranger slowly began to stir. She pressed her hand to her brow as if trying to remember something, staring quizzicaly at everyone around her, and finally spoke, "You're hobbits?" she pronounced the word oddly, as if it was a term she had rarely used.

"Of course, we're hobbits, "spluttered Hawthorn. "Who else should we be? But who are you, and what are you doing here?"

Weakly, she replied. "I am Bella.....Belladonna Took, the daughter of Hildifons Took, now deceased. Just look in the Red Book. You'll see his name inscribed there with the other Took kin. And I am here looking for Cami Goodchild. Please, could someone go out to the wagon and rescue my books. There's quite a pack of them." Then the unnamed stranger fainted dead away, and no amount of poking by Hawthorn could arouse her.

At the mention of the last name, Cook gasped, remembering something the old Innkeeper Pio had once confided to her..... The name 'Hildifons Took' was also familiar, although she would bet that none of the young hobbits had ever heard of it. The Tooks had generally been careful to hush up that story.

[THE Ka]

After the band had finished, Rasputina sat down at one of the tables for awhile. She felt somewhat exhausted... I clearly had been some time since she was a child. It seemed so strange how time could be the most fleet of feet.

Rasputina felt a song coming over her as she sat there. Finding her cello, she walked up to the stage. The rest of the band had left for a break, that was ok, she did not need an accompaniment on this song. Making a few tests of the strings, she began the song:

There’s something beating here inside my body
And it’s called a heart
You know how easy it is to tear it apart
If I lend it to you, would you keep it safe for me
I’ll lend it to you, will you treat it tenderly
There’s something beating here inside my body
And it’s called a heart

There’s a sun shining in the sky
But that’s not the reason why I’m feeling warm inside
The answer isn’t classified- it’s my heart
From the moment I started
I tried to be good about it
Yes I’ve tried my best
And more or less, I spoke from my heart

There’s a lot to be learned
And you learn when your heart gets burned

There’s something beating here inside my body
And it’s called a heart
You know how easy it is to tear it apart
If I lend it to you, would you keep it safe for me
I’ll lend it to you, will you treat it tenderly
There’s something beating here inside my body
And it’s called a heart

Hearts can never be owned
Hearts only come on loan
If I want it back
I will take it back
I’ll take my heart

But I will try my best
And more or less
I will speak from my heart
Yes, I will speak from my heart
Speak from my heart

There’s a lot to be learned
And you learn when your heart gets burned

There’s something beating here inside my body
And it’s called a heart
You know how easy it is to tear it apart
If I lend it to you, would you keep it safe for me
I’ll lend it to you, will you treat it tenderly
There’s something beating here inside my body
And it’s called a heart...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's called a Heart - Depeshe Mode

[Firefoot]

Willy realized in horror how late it had gotten. Why, it was nearly his bedtime (if not past it), and his Ma had no idea where he or Nick was. After a day like today, he would not be surprised if he were not permitted to leave the farm for a good many days! He had become caught up in the festivities, enjoying the excitement, being delighted many times over by Shimshin's antics, and even scoffing at the way the older hobbit lads and lasses went about, as if dancing was the most important part of the party. Now, it was time to be getting home, and right quick.

"Nick," he said, "we had better say good-bye to Mr. Seamus and give Shimshin back... it's getting late, and I bet we're already in for a scolding." Nick nodded with a trace of reluctance, but he was becoming too tired to argue much. Willy led the way through the crowd, approaching the band. Willy waited impatiently for the end of the song before boldly stepping up to Seamus, an attitude so different from the one with which he had queried about Shimshin in the morning. It was not to say that this confidence extended to his opinions of all the Big Folk; indeed, he was not very comfortable around most of them at all, including Seamus' friend Owen who the brothers had met earlier, at least to an extent. Nick followed only a half-step behind, his shy liking for the man readily apparent. Shimshin, who had been sitting sedately on Nick's shoulder, bounded down and scurried up onto Seamus' shoulder.

"Mr. Seamus? It's getting late, and me and Nick have to be going home now. We brought Shimshin back for you," said Willy. Honestly, he was not ready to leave, but he feared the consequences of staying even later.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Seamus. "Thanks for watching Shimshin for us. It was good to know he wasn't getting into any mischief today while we were playing."

"No problem," answered Willy. "It was fun."

Seamus smiled. "I'm glad. And here," he said, fishing in his pocket, "is the payment I promised you earlier." He handed each of them a copper half-penny. Wily's eyes were wide. He rarely had any money of his own to spend.

"Thank you, Mr. Seamus," said Willy automatically. Nick echoed, though the money seemed to have less hold on his mind. He would have rather spent more time with his friend Shimshin, but he listened as always to Willy.

"You're welcome," he said. "You boys did a good job with him." Nick beamed.

"Well," said Willy, feeling rushed to get home. "Good night."

"Good night," said Seamus. Willy began to walk off with a wave, but Nick lingered for a moment. He reached up to scratch Shimshin's shiny fur one more time. "G'night Shimshin," he said. Then to Seamus, "Shimshin is my friend." Being less confident without Willy's presence, he hurried away after Willy without waiting for a reply.

As Willy was leaving, it occurred to him that he had never seen Shimshin discard the fake whistle as he had expected. He shrugged to himself - he had no use for it, and he couldn't go back to get it now anyway. It had been an interesting day, no doubt, and he was not eager to end it. All the same, as soon as Nick had caught up and he was more or less out of sight of the Inn, he took off sprinting for home, already planning on his story to cover up for the long day at the Inn... if Nick didn't blow it. Then there really would be a price to pay.

[peral]

The young girl quickly walked down the street. It was late, too late for her liking to be out on her own. Even though most of the people she saw the road were halflings - barely reaching her shoulder - she still considered the possibility of getting mugged. As she neared the inn, she breathed a sigh of obvious relief. The lights beckoned to her invitingly, but as she walked towards the door she heard the sounds of merriment coming from the inn and its surrounds.

"A party," she muttered, "how terribly inconvenient."

However, she proceeded into the inn. The innkeeper came up to the counter, puffing and blowing as if she had just been running from something.

"How may I help you, miss?"

"A single room, please."

The innkeeper smiled pleasantly, "Of course you may. May I have a name to go with it?"

"Sharya. How much will one night be?"

"5 silvers."

"And a week?"

"30."

"I'll take it for a week."

The innkeeper nodded and jotted something down in her book.

"I'll take you to your room now, miss."

"Thank you."

The innkeeper led Sharya through the various hallways. She had to duck quite a bit to get through, but she managed.

"I'm sorry, about the hallways, you will have a proper human sized room though."

"That's alright, I'm used to having to duck quite a bit."

The innkeeper finally turned into a corridor that became the right size for Sharya, and before long, she stopped in front of a door and turned the key in the keyhole.

"Here you go, miss."

"Thank you."

"And if you'd be wanting anything to eat, you can come to the bar. There's a party going on, but I'm sure the girls will be able to find something for you," and with these words, the innkeeper withdrew with a smile.

Sharya breathed a sigh of relief and threw herself on her bed. From her resting spot, she looked around the room. It was sparsely decorated, but...cosy. She turned face-down and buried her head in her pillow.

"This is going to be a long week."

[piosenniel]

Zimzi and Derufin

Once the song was done, Zimzi took Derufin by the hand. Together they made their ‘thank you for coming’ and ‘please excuse us, but we’ll be going now,’ rounds - stopping for a few moments to speak with each guest as they worked their way to the edge of the party grounds.

Uien and Falowik were the last they spoke to, saying they hoped they would see them both tomorrow. ‘Second breakfast, then,’ said Zimzi, giving the man and Elf a hug. She pulled Uien aside for a moment to thank her once again for the necklaces. Derufin retrieved her, putting the shawl about her shoulders he’d been carrying for her. ‘Lunch . . . late,’ he mouthed to Falowik, as he steered Zimzi down the little path to home.

[piosenniel]

Cook

Buttercup and Ruby had come up quietly behind Cook. They’d managed to shoo most of the gawkers from the kitchen, telling them all there were free drinks still being served . . . in the Common Room. At the mention of the name ‘Cami’ they too had gasped, and clasped hands. Mistress Piosenniel, the former Innkeeper, had often spoken fondly of a friend of hers, a Hobbit from round here . . . a Hobbit named Cami. And there had been some strange happenings just before Mistress Pio left, vague happenings, things that seemed to have happened in a hazy dream. But both Ruby and Buttercup knew from sharing what little they could remember that the name ‘Cami’ wove through the wispy memories.

Ruby took Buttercup by the hand and tiptoed round Cook and up to the bedraggled Hobbit. Buttercup reached out one finger and poked the woman on the arm. There was no response save for a twitch of the limb.

‘Ladies! We don’t treat visitors to the Inn like that!’ Cook opened the door to her room and asked Andwise to help her carry the woman into her little parlour. ‘You can put her on my sofa.’ Cook placed a pillow under Belladonna’s head and pulled a quilt from the back of the sofa over her pale little form. ‘Poor dear,’ she murmured, smoothing the woman’s dusty curls away from her face. ‘You just rest and when you wake up I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea with honey and a little broth.’ Cook turned the lamp low in the room as she and the others left the woman sleeping.

~*~

‘I’ve heard that name before,’ Buttercup said, as she and Hawthorne went out to the stables to retrieve the woman’s books and whatever other belongings they could find. ‘Belladonna?’ said Hawthorne. ‘No, not Belladonna. Her father’s name, Hildifons Took.’ Hawthorne looked at her with interest. ‘Trouble is, it’s one of those things that just gets whispered about and you’re not quite sure what’s true and what’s not.’ Hawthorne shivered at the thought of a mystery. Buttercup, at the younger girl’s urging, spoke low about a few things she’d heard about that member of the Took family. Swearing they were true because her Gran had told her so. Hawthorne’s eyes widened as Buttercup chattered on, and she scarcely noticed how the Party outside had pretty much come to an end.

‘Who’d have thought,’ said Hawthorne, as they hauled the stack of books into the Inn and headed toward the kitchen. ‘Who’d have thought that such a shabby and tattered old lady could have such an interesting relative?’

[peral]

Sharya made her way slowly and quietly down to the common room. The festivities seemed to have died down. However, once she entered the common room, a scene of merriment greeted her.

"What's going on?" she asked a nearby hobbit.

This hobbit was somewhat drunk but managed to slur out the words. "Free drinks."

Sharya arched an eyebrow quizzically but seeing that she could not get any more information out of the obviously inebriated halfling she got herself a drink and sat down in a corner by herself.

The halflings seemed to be quieting down somewhat, most of them passing out on tables and chairs and even on the floor! Sharya was somewhat surprised but didn't say anything. She finished her drink and considered going to the kitchen to inquire about some food. However, the prospect of navigating through all the bodies wasn't too pleasing to her mind, so, deciding that she wasn't too hungry and could live one night without food, she took her leave and returned to her room.

[piosenniel]

Please note: I'll be moving time ahead in the Inn to morning at about noonish Pacific Time, U.S. today.

Please get any night in the Shire posts done that you need to get in before then.

Thanks!

~*~ Piosenniel

[Arry]

The band packs it in . . .

The last strains of music drifted over the Inn’s front yard, seeming to fade beneath the trees as the their leafy branches captured the notes. The band was tired. It had been a long, though satisfying, day of playing for the party. Gil let the air out of his concertina and locked his Lady, as he called her, up. The others in their little group put their instruments away also. A last mug of ale, and they would be heading home. Gil, Tomlin, Fallon, and Ferrin to their snug burrows. Seamus and Owen, Caity and Rasputina, to the Inn for the night at least. Falco was there at the table, too, as the last round of drink was shared. He, too, Gil supposed would be staying at the Inn. Little Marigold, he’d seen carried in earlier by Buttercup, and put to bed.

It had been a good party, he thought. Derufin and Zimzi had paid them a number of compliments, and there had been many requests of the band to play Shire favorites. Best of all, he thought, had been the fact that the band had been so large. They’d been able to spell each other and enjoy a dance or two with their own little darlings. Gil smiled, recalling how he’d managed to flirt with a number of lasses from the outskirts of Bywater that he didn’t get to see often.

The last drop of ale slid down his throat, as sweet and as welcome as the first. The lads and he put their instruments in the small cart they’d driven to the Inn and saying a last good-bye to the others drove off down the path to the main road.

Gil sang as the pony plodded along, and was soon joined by his companions. It was an old song that each of their mothers had sung to them at night when they were just wee ones.

Under yonder oaken tree,
Whose branches oft me shaded;
Elves, the Fair Folk, dance with glee,
When day's last beam hath faded:
Then while the stars shine brightly,
So airy, gay and sprightly,
'Till rooster tells that dawn is near,
They trip it, trip it lightly.

Yet no trace of them is seen,
When morning rays are glancing,
Not one footprint on the green
Shows where the Elves were dancing:
Oh! Where are they abiding?
In what lone valley hiding?
Come next with me and we will see
The Fair Folk homewards gliding . . .

On the way, they passed Andwise and Ferdy and Gammer Banks, also heading home. There were hoots and good natured calls between the two carts as the lads teased each other about their dance partners. ‘See you all tomorrow,’ Andwise called out to the other cart, chuckling at the give and take. ‘I promised Miz Bunce we would help with the cleaning up of the yard and the putting away of the tables and benches.’

Groans all around greeted this announcement . . .

--------------

-- song lyrics changed a wee bit from the traditional Welsh air: Under Yonder Oaken Tree (Mae Croesawiad Gwraig Y Ty)

[Fairleaf]

Fairleaf had enjoyed herself thoroughly. And now that the last of the music was fading, she drank in the fleeting notes with her leaves, letting their rhythm course through her limbs and tingle her roots.

Under yonder oaken tree,
Whose branches oft me shaded;
Elves, the Fair Folk, dance with glee,
When day's last beam hath faded . . .

Oh, true! . . .tis true indeed . . . she hummed to herself recalling the Eldar beneath the upflung branches of oaks and beeches and towering elms as they danced beneath the stars. How did these Little Folk know, she wondered. Had they seen the Fair Folk, too, on cloudless nights?

From her vantage point near the three Grannies who tended to the great punch bowl, she could see quite well the area where the guests were dancing. How pretty they were! All done up in glorious colors; their faces smiling, their feet fairly gliding over the lawn. Like leaves, she thought, caught up in some fair breeze, whirled this way and that in little eddies of color and movement.

She would have to be more careful, though, she thought if she were to stay about much longer. She had been listening in closely to the old Grannies as they chatted about those at the party, and had occasionally dipped one of her slender branches into the delicious punch for a sip. At one point, as the women were deep in discussion of the handfasted couple, Fairleaf had found herself nodding in agreement at their mention of Zimzi’s garden, her leaves rustling in approval, too, of the flowers that had been planted beneath the trees. One of the old dears had looked up at her from her seat at the table and patted her trunk as if in acknowledgement! And further, before they had left for the night, the three Grannies had held a whispered conference, then pushed the punchbowl with a wee bit of their fine draught in it quite close to her. ‘Good for the roots,’ she heard one of them say as they hobbled away.

She drank deep, finishing off the punch, once they’d left, then withdrew a little beneath the overarching canopy of the taller trees. A grey squirrel who’d thought to rest in her branches for the night startled awake as Fairleaf glided backward. He chattered at her angrily, his tail all fluffed up in irritation.

‘Hush now,’ she whispered to him as she came to a halt. Her branches hearby him, curled round his form, cradling him in her leaves. He settled in with a sniff and returned to sleep. Fairleaf dug her roots in deep and anchored herself for the night. She, too, found her lids grow heavy and soon she was lost to her own dreamings . . .

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger yawned as she climbed the stairs to her little room at the Inn. It had been a glorious day, in her opinion. Mistress Zimzi had been so pretty in her gown with the wreath of flowers on her head that Ginger and the children had made. And Mister Derufin had looked so handsome; and how sweet was he, the way he looked at his new missus and held her hand so fondly. Ginger blushed, remembering how the couple had sought her out especially to tell her how lovely the sugared violets were that she had made for their cake.

And then, of course, there was her own Ferdy . . . she shivered and hugged herself as she danced about her room. She supposed she could call him that now . . . her Ferdy. For he had declared his feelings for her, and hadn’t he made sure there was no one else should dance with her! She grinned, thinking how she might see him tomorrow. She’d overheard Mr. Banks tell Cook they lads and he would help with the hauling and cleanup of the Inn yard the next day.

In the chill of her room, Ginger flung off her party clothes hastily, letting them fall where they would, and shrugged into her warm flannel nightgown as quick as a wink. She dove under her quilts, burrowing down beneath them to get warm. Her little head had barely hit her pillow when she yawned again and closed her eyes. She was soon asleep, a smile creasing her little face as she fell into dreams of dancing in a beautiful dress with a wreath of flowers gracing her curls.

[piosenniel]

Please note: I'll be moving time ahead in the Inn to morning at about noonish Pacific Time, U.S. today.

Please get any night in the Shire posts done that you need to get in before then.

Thanks!

~*~ Piosenniel

[Nurumaiel]

Little Marigold's steps had begun to slow, and her eyes became mild and dreamy. Falco, who had to his great annoyance found that he was huffing and puffing, knew exactly what was wrong and was more than a little pleased for it. After all, it wouldn't do to overwork himself. Ah, in those old days! He could dance longer than any other lad... except perhaps Fosco. Fosco had a perpetual store of energy.

"Well, now, it's been a lovely little party," said Falco, "but you must be wanting your bed."

"Oh," said Marigold, attempting a light, airy smile and succeeding only in looking comically distressed. "I don't have anywhere to stay."

"Of course you do," said Falco. "Why, I'm a rich hobbit and I'll get you the prettiest room at the Inn." He glanced about him as he spoke. The party was already dispersing, and many of the tweenagers were already gone to bed. How odd it was that they, the most energetic of all hobbits, should be gone while he, old and stiff, and Marigold, just barely out of babyhood, were still dancing! But she had not wanted to stop once she started. She hadn't been able to dance very often, she said. Only every so often when her mother was in a laughing, light mood.

Buttercup came to take the little girl away, and Falco went with them to survey and pay for the room. It was a pretty room, though perhaps not the prettiest. It was small and homey, with a little bed and table, and flitting curtains at the windows. She could see the garden from those windows, and when he left her she was sitting by them, gazing out with dreamy eyes while Buttercup made up the bed.

He went out again for one last drink with the lads, and another song, and then, bidding them all good night, he tramped off, wondering vaguely if it were unhealthy for a hobbit of his age to stay up so late and drink so many mugs.

His room, which was right next to Marigold's, was also comfortable, though it was not much bigger than the little girl's. It didn't matter very much to him, however, whether it was big or not. He needed a room for the nights, when he wouldn't care if it was large or small. He'd be out first thing in the morning to see if those young musician lads had come back.

As he closed his eyes he could hear Marigold softly singing in a childish little voice through the walls, and he thought of how very talented young Caity was with her whistle. And then he was asleep.

[Nurumaiel]

It could not be said that Falco Headstrong was generally an early riser, but neither could it be said that he was a late riser. He rose when he felt like it, and what he felt like highly depended upon the events of the previous day. Perhaps it was odd that he rose at first daylight the morning after a party, but it was not unusual of him. Sleep was not something he could easily take and hold when his toes were still tapping and his mind still turning over and over the excitement of the day.

Little Marigold was always an early riser. She never wanted to miss a moment in a day, she said. A day was such a lovely thing, full of surprises just waiting around the corner. What if she slept late and one of the surprises came? She would miss it entirely, and that would never do! No, it was altogether best to get up early and miss nothing, absolutely nothing. Besides, the world looked so beautiful at first light. The rays of the sun were soft, golden, and mellow... not at all the kind of sun that beats down with no mercy to burn little noses unprotected by a hat. As Marigold skipped out of bed that morning she paused in front of the little mirror that hung by her bed and touched her nose. Yes, there was some red on it. No wonder! She had been out in the sun all day. But was there ever a day where the sun didn't find her skipping under his rays?

The only bad things about mornings, Marigold reflected, was getting out of bed. You had been snuggled down under the blankets for hours and hours, and then you had to get out of that warm shelter. But when the day was so sunny as this, where did the cold come in? It was banished to sulk with the darkness until night, when the both of them would come creeping up. And besides, that flannel night-gown Buttercup had fetched out of the old chest was so warm and snug! And the ruffles around the neck were too dear. Almost like her old night-gown at home.

Her little feet touched the floor, and she pattered across the wooden boards to the window. The curtains were drawn aside, the window opened, and the sunlight let in. Marigold leaned out and down, dropping her head to kiss the flowers good morning. Her tangled golden curls fell about her flushed and rosy cheeks. A young hobbit lad, walking up the road, saw her, and reflected that she was the perfect image of childhood... healthy, happy, bright-eyed, smiling... with that inexpressible charm that is in all children.

Marigold spent a few minutes by the window, drinking in the morning, and then she turned and went to the little set of drawers by her bed. She had stored her few little belongings there the night before. The comb was brought out, and she sat on the edge of her bed, patiently working through the tangles. Her eyes studied the ribbons lying across the tabletop. Buttercup must have left them there the night before. Buttercup was such a kind, sweet hobbit. Marigold plaited her hair behind her, tying a pretty bow at the end, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her little cheeks were pink, her eyes were sparkling, her lips were turned up in a smile, and her hair was tied neatly back, with only a few wisps of curls escaping around her ears. Perhaps she was not tall and slender and gorgeous like Zimzi, she reflected, but she wasn't so very bad-looking.

She met Falco Headstrong in the hallway, for they both left their rooms at the same time. His face was sour and his teeth set. There was no logical reason why he was in a bad mood, for clearly he was... he must have merely 'got out on the wrong side of bed' that morning. Marigold paused. Or did you 'get up from the wrong side of bed?' Ah well, it didn't matter. Falco Headstrong had done it, anyway. She would have to cheer him up. But he spoke before she could bid him a cheery good morning.

"You're wearing the same clothes you wore at the party," he said, rather sternly.

"I don't have any others," said Marigold, "except for my muddy clothes. When those are clean again I'll wear them."

"You shouldn't have only two dresses," said Falco. "It's not right. I'll go buy you some clothes today."

"You don't have to," said Marigold, with a little flash in her eyes. She was only a little girl yet, but young and old succumb to that thing called pride, that thing that bids them receive no help from others.

Falco's eyes softened somewhat, though his face was as stern and set as ever. "Well, well, my girl," he said, "I must pay you in some way, for you lent me your father's whistle."

"I don't want to be paid for it. I didn't do it for reward."

"But," said Falco, with a brief flash of a teasing grin, "I don't accept charity either. Now!" He took her hand, which she didn't mind too much, even if he were very grumpy. "Let me take you down and get you some breakfast."

Shaeowyn awoke to the unhappy snorting of her black mare. "Oh, Windungen," the woman sputtered as she bolted from the hay where she had spent the night. Rubbing her aching limbs and eyes ruefully, she muttered about indulging too much in the 'women's punch.' "I must get you some grain to eat, and then see about my own breakfast," she said, putting her arms around her favorite companion's neck. Her dark brown hair held streaks of sunlight interspersed with the creeping grey. It curled wildly about her once pretty face; matted as badly as her horse's midnight colored mane.

"I must find the Innkeeper to see about your grain, and fetch more water for you also," she called to her horse as she shut the stall door securely behind her. She could not remember the names and occupations of the people swirling through the party's evening; she felt alone and somewhat afraid. Animals had always been more steadfast and honest friends, and she seemed to have a special gift for gaining their loyalty; sometimes even their protection. But she brushed her discomfort aside and strode purposefully into the Green Dragon's breakfast scene. Looking about with keen green eyes, she caught sight of the kind woman who had come to her aid the evening before. "Ruby, would you be able to spare a moment," Shaeowyn spoke loudly over the happy morning noises.

[peral]

Sharya woke up with the sun shining brightly into her eyes. She sat up almost immediately and struggled to remember where she was. Of course, the Green Dragon Inn in Hobbiton. She sighed and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. She staggered over to the basin and splashed water into her face. This woke her up sufficiently for her to think straight. Her head was throbbing and she thougt back to what she had drunk the night before. "It couldn't have been that strong," she muttered. She heard her stomach rumble loudly. Of course, she hadn't eaten any dinner the night before. She pulled on her only dress, a cream colored gown that was already stained from long wear. She would have to see about getting another dress.

Sighing, she looked into the mirror and tried to make her tangle of curls slightly more presentable. With one last wistful look at her reflection she headed down to the common room to see about breakfast.

The common room was already filled with people, halflings and other races alike. She walked over to one of the waitresses and tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, how should I go about getting breakfast?" The girl turned around and smiled, "If you just go and sit down, I can get something out for you as soon as possible." Sharya nodded, "Thank you."

As she sat down, she looked around the room at the other patrons of the inn. There was a boy with a younger girl which looked as if they could be related. The others didn't catch her attention as much but her observation was interrupted by the same girl who she had talked to earlier coming up to her and setting a tray with a huge plate of eggs and Shire ham before her along with a basket of scones with a saucer of blackberry jam beside it.

"Will you be wanting tea with that as well?" the girl asked.

"What type of tea?" Sharya asked warily for she was well acquainted with the not so delectable types which she had experienced before.

"Just normal tea with honey," the girl answered.

"Yes please." And with a nod, the girl left the table, presumably to get the aforementioned tea.

It was only now that Sharya realised how hungry she was and she dug into the breakfast with a vengeance.

[piosenniel]

~*~ GREEN DRAGON INN FACTS ~*~

It is the 4th Age, year 12. By the Shire Calendar it is year 1433 S.R. (Shire Reckoning).

King Elessar is on the throne of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor.

Mirkwood has been reclaimed by the Elves and is now called Eryn Lasgalen.

Paladdin Took, Pippin’s father, is Thain of the Shire. (Thain is an honorary title for the military leader of the Shire. The title has been held in the Took Family since the position was first established in 3rd Age 1979 with Bucca of the Marish as First Thain.) Paladdin Took dies in year 13, and will be succeeded by his son, Peregrin, ‘Pippin’, Took.

Samwise Gamgee is Mayor of the Shire, having succeeded Will Whitfoot in 1427 S.R.

The Innkeeper, in the Green Dragon Inn of this forum, is: Aman – a young woman from Rohan.

Before her, the Innkeeper was Piosenniel, and before her it was Dwarin, the Dwarf.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

Other ongoing characters in the Inn:

Ruby Brown, Hobbit – not married – server and maid

Buttercup Brownlock, Hobbit – not married – kitchen assistant and maid

Vinca Bunce, widowed, Inn Cook (character played by Piosenniel)

Derufin, General handyman/jack-of-all-trades round the Inn (played by Envinyatar)

Zimzi (Zimziran), wife to Derufin; a skilled potter from Lindon(played by Pio)

Meriadoc - Stablemaster

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

Ongoing characters from outside the Inn:

Halfred Whitfoot – local Shiriff from Bywater and Postmaster for this area of the Shire; his pony’s name is Dumpling.

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Please Note:

No 'SAVES' are allowed in the Inn (except for modifications needed to be made by the Moderators or Innkeeper).

With the exception of the Innkeeper and the Moderators, no OOC (Out Of Character) comments are allowed in the Inn.

Only the Innkeeper, Amanaduial, or the Moderators move the timeline for the Inn forward.

Visitors to the Inn will need to read the posts that come before theirs to get an idea of what time it is in the Shire, what the weather is like, and what is happening.

No violence is allowed in the Inn or on Inn grounds.

Please be familiar with the rules for the Inn and Games in The Red Book of Westmarch, the first topic in the Shire.

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About Elves in Shire RPG's:

Please use this description from Tolkien when crafting an Elf:

Return of the King – Appendix F: Tolkien’s description for the Quendi (The Speakers) – the name given to the Elves by themselves after they first awoke in Middle-earth.

“They were a race high and beautiful, the older Children of the world, and among them the Eldar were as Kings, who now are gone: the People of the Great Journey, the People of the Stars. They were tall, fair of skin and grey-eyed, though their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finrod; and their voices had more melodies than any mortal voice that is now heard . . .”

Please use this as a guideline for describing your Elven character’s appearance.