The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[piosenniel]

~*~ GREEN DRAGON INN FACTS ~*~

The Green Dragon Inn is located in Bywater, just off the Great East-West Road.

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.

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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; Man from southwestern Gondor (played by Envinyatar) - AWAY AT PRESENT

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

Meriadoc - Stablemaster

Tim Woodlock - Stableboy; Wren - his younger sister: humans, originally from Breeland (characters played by Folwren)

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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.

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EVERYONE

Please be familiar with The Red Book of Westmarch which gives the rules for posting in the Shire RPG's and in The Green Dragon Inn.

Thanks!

Piosenniel, Shire Moderator

[piosenniel]

Time of Day

It's nearing noon in the Shire.

Second breakfast is being served. Lunch is being cooked.

The weather is pleasant - sunny with a clear sky.

[Witch_Queen]

Cariâthwen looked at the man with what might be seen as deep regret. "I am Cariâthwen of what is left of Lothlorien. I mean not to pry into your business. 'Tis your business and as curious as I may seem I don't want to know any part of your business." Her words didn't come out as smooth as she wanted them. But she had to do her best to keep herself calm cause she wished not for anyone to pry into her business.

"Well I have told you my name but you have yet to tell me yours." Cariâthwen had told the strange man only part of who she was. She didn't need to let anyone know of her escape from her home. The secret of who her grandmother was would have to remain a secret until she could trust the company she was in. It would be weird for anyone to hear that I, Cariâthwen, am the granddaughter of Galadriel. My secrets are my own and this is my own business that I must tend to.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Seleven leant back in his chair and drunk a little port. He took a pipe from his pack and placed its mouthpiece towards the table. He did not light it, but merely held it, as if it held memories of its own. The grey eyes and fair face told him immediately that this was an Elf, and one of high order.

He coughed and cleared his throat, "I am Seleven," he said, "Son of Daynú of Gondor." when no reaction came across Cariâthwen's face, he knew she did not know him of his father, that, in his mind, was a good thing. Many years lay heavily on him, added to them were the years his fathers treachery had laid upon him. Blood was on his hands, kindred blood. But now, here in the unspoken north west of Middle Earth, he was speaking with one who regarded him with spite, not at all.

"My business is nothing terribly private," he said at last, "and I do tend to create the curiosity in those around me. Pray, forget I said such harsh words." he raised his glass as a sigh of a toast.

Looking into the eyes of Cariâthwen, Seleven saw some wisdom that perhaps could help him. He fished out the paper once again from his pack and showed it to her. It was very high quality paper, found only in Gondor and especially Minas Tirith. It was paper designed for historical records and not for ideal letters between friends or foes. "Can you read this?" he asked as he held it up.

Cariâthwen looked and saw that the letters were a mixture of different elvish scripts, as well as some Gondorian and even Dwarvish runes. The End was signed in the plain common tong, 'May you bitterly lie in wait, Smilog.' Seleven watched as Cariâthwen nodded with a look of puzzlement upon her face.

"Worry not," he said, "many of these have I received recently. But it is good to know others are widely learned in other tongs beside their own." Cariâthwen seemed troubled, so Seleven leant forth and spoke softly, "Now, my good Elf, what troubles ye? I see a grief in thine eyes that I have not seen for many years. Perhaps I can lend some aid?"

[Huan]

‘Best you get up!’ called Rowan from the little hallway in the upper part of the Inn. She knocked loudly at her brother’s door then tried the handle. There he was, still curled up in bed, the quilts thrown over his head.

‘I know you can hear me, Tolly! It’s already nearing noon. Don’t you want to practice our little play before tonight?’ A few muffled imprecations issued from beneath the thick quilt, and Rowan ducked back quickly as an arm snaked quickly from beneath, pillow in hand.

‘Missed me!’ she cried hearing the pillow thump against the now closed door.

She took the scarlet ribbon from her vest pocket and tied back her chestnut curls as she walked to the landing. Once down the stairs, she looked about the Common Room, seeking the others of her troupe. No sign of Gwyn or Talan. And none of Emlin, either. ‘Probably all out and about already,’ she thought to herself.

Oh! But there by the fireplace, his back turned to her was that fellow she’d met just last night. The singer. Now what was his name? Rowan walked quietly toward where Gil sat hunched over his mug of ale. She drew up quietly behind him and cleared her throat to get his attention.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

For all that he was a small fellow, he could eat prodigious amounts of bacon and eggs. Even the other hobbits began to wonder at it as the tiny newcomer tucked away the last fragments of his second plate of second breakfast. With a contented sigh he sat back in his chair and took a long, final pull at the mug of ale that the barmaid had given him. With his eating done he took out a long stemmed pipe and began energetically puffing away upon it, until soon he was lost to sight in a large cloud of fragrant smoke. He emerged again sometime later as the cloud drifted away on the currents of the room, looking contented simply to sit and watch.

And there was much to see. So many strange and adventuresome folk moved about that he hardly knew what to say or where to step. He sought in earnest to catch the eye of the hobbits who moved about, but they seemed so used to the presence of the Big Folk, Elves, Dwarves and other sorts that they went about their business as though it were entirely usual and normal in the Shire to have such a gathering.

He saw the pretty barmaid come skipping past upon some errand and called out to her. She came over to him, asking if he wanted more ale. "Nay, lass, just someone to speak with for a bit. I have some questions as need answering."

She looked about, saying, "I'm afraid that we're very busy at the moment. There's been an injury to the stablemaster, and all these new people have arrived...but I suppose I can spare a moment. What would you like to know?"

"Well, first off, your name would be nice. I am Fordogrim Chubb, of the Gamwich Chubbs."

The girl shook his hand and said that her name was Ruby Brown. A brief conversation of a very hobbitish type followed as they quickly ran through their ancestry and found that they were fifth cousins, twice removed. Having established this they became more comfortable with one another immediately -- as one always does with family. "And what brings you to Bywater Mister Chubb?" she asked.

"Nay Nay, call me not 'Mister', lass. Any great-grandneice of my father's cousin's half-sister is going to call me Fordogrim or naught. But to answer the question, I am here to see if there's a market for my new ale. I'm a brewer you see -- but I'm sure you know that -- all the Chubbs in Gamwich are brewers! -- and I've done quite well for myself. Most of the Inns of the West Farthing serve my brew, and I'm looking to see if there's folk in these here parts who'd be willing to try some."

"Well, Fordogrim, I can assure you that the people hereabouts do enjoy their ale, but most of them are most particular about what they'll drink. It would have to be a mighty fine mug of beer to get most of them to change. Not that they will refuse to try it!"

Fordogrim grinned and leapt from his chair. Looking up at Ruby, who towered over him by at least a foot, he cried out, "Now that's the best news I've heard in a while! As it happens, they'll have a chance to try it and right soon, for I've arranged for a small sample of my ales to be sent to this very Inn later today. Why, I've walked through the night just to get here in time to meet them!"

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

Had it not been for his hunger, Frór might have reacted differently to the hobbits mentioning of the tailor, but he was tired, hungry and actualy he did need some new clothes.

with a sense of importans in his voice the dwarf replied Buttercup : A hard jurney it has been, from my home far over the Misty Mountains grim and cold.
Far away from Erebor it is not.

But first bring me a pork-pie and salat, with some ale.

When i have eaten we can talk of Mr. Baggins and the Iron Hills

For indeed Frór had heart the tales of Thorin and he's companions.

[Koobdooga]

Frór is greeted by a fellow Dwarf

Ibun Lodestone tucked the napkin Cook had delivered along with his tray into the collar of his tunic. His long beard was parted at the chin and done into two thick braids that hung down his chest. Now normally, he was not a messy eater, but he feared that the scrambled eggs and the thick sliced bread loaded with butter and jam might just decide to plant parts of themselves on the front of his shirt. And this tunic was his only clean one at the moment.

He paused for a moment, giving thanks to Mahal for the finding of this most excellent Inn. The smells from his plate made his mouth water in anticipation. Picking up his fork and knife, he tucked into the generously piled platter with gusto. Thick sliced ham and eggs as light as clouds soon found their way to his mouth.

As he chewed, he could not help but notice that nearby was one of the Hobbit serving girls speaking to another Dwarf he hadn’t noticed before. Ibun put down his utensils and wiping his mouth, he went over to where the other Dwarf sat.

‘Well met, Master Frór,’ he said, smiling at the dwarf. He had heard the server say his name as she left to fetch Frór’s food. ‘My name is Ibun. Ibun Lodestone. From Khazad-dum.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I was wondering,’ he went on, ‘if you’d like to join me at my table.’ He pointed to where he’d been sitting. ‘I’d like the company, if you don’t mind mine. What do you say?’

[Witch_Queen]

What Cariâthwen had read on the paper scared her out of what sign of life she might of had still in her face. Cariâthwen was lost in thought until she heard Seleven talking. "Now, my good Elf, what troubles ye? I see a grief in thine eyes that I have not seen for many years. Perhaps I can lend some aid?" With all color out of her face Cariâthwen turned to meet Seleven's gaze. She didn't know what to tell the man setting across from her. She didn't know whether to tell him the truth or dig deep into her imagination and come up with a far fetch story. The look she was receiving from Seleven told Cariâthwen that he wanted the truth.

"I am not use to being on my own. I always had my mother around me and up until my grandmother left I had her too. Everyone knows that the elves are leaving Middle Earth. My family is gone and I now have no one well except for my horse. Thorn would never abandon me like the others did." Cariâthwen didn't know what she was saying, there was no others, there was never any others. All her life she was alone and now she realized it even more.

"Normally I talk to Thorn about all the problems I face in this endless life yet Thorn could never answer."I feel hollow inside almost as if someone reached through my skin only to take out part of my heart and soul. I show no scars for the abomination that has hurt me is neither alive nor dead. After all how can one kill life when she only renews herself with the dawning of every new day.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Seleven placed the pipe in his mouth and still left it unlit, the words that came from Cariâthwen were filled with deep pain and some longing. Seleven felt he could sympathise, "being alone can oft' leave one scared," he said, "especially is one has been with company for so long. Believe me, I know the feeling well, and it haunts me even today." His eyes became filled with memory as he stared seemingly through the very walls of the Green Dragon.

He shook his head and smiled, "Ah, do not listen to me," he said, "I am a foolish old man. But this Thorn you speak of, that name sounds Dwarvish, is it not? I knew a dwarf of good measure once, a delightful fellow, but too many ideas beyond his years and height" he chuckled to himself at the memory, "He once thought he could build a raft from stone. Terribly silly idea, I thought, and I was right, but that didn't stop the little fellow from trying it anyway." He shook his head and saw that Cariâthwen was at least a little amused; she obviously knew the nature of Dwarves and how they can be.

[Arry]

Gil gives the intruder the cold shoulder

‘I told you I didn’t want to be bothered! No, I don’t want any eggs and ham to go along with my ale! Just leave me be . . .’

Gil hunched down closer over his mug. He was in the midst of some rather melancholic thoughts, having a ‘pity-party’ as his sister would say. He wasn’t used to things not going the way he’d planned. And especially when it involved a lass he’d had his eye on.

He twitched his shoulders in irritation, hoping whoever was behind him would take the hint and go away.

[Witch_Queen]

At the mention of dwarves Cariâthwen suddenly began to remember the time that she had snuck away from home to spend some time with a family of dwarves. One time her mother saw her sneeking out and followed her. To this day she still remembered her mothers words, "Cariâthwen! You know I don't like you sneeking out... And DWARVES!! Why can't you be like everyone else and go play with your cousin." But Cariâthwen knew she wasn't like her cousin, and she wasn't like her kind. Cariâthwen had a smile across her face. "You know Seleven, I actually got Thorn from a dwarf. He was the first dwarf I met. Even then he believed he could do anything. Quite rare in a dwarf, especially to become such a close friend of mine. But that was many years ago and despite all feelings that we are talking about the same dwarf we couldn't be.Plus I believe Koibur went into hiding some years ago."

Cariâthwen always felt safe around dwarves. Her mother never understood her like the short bearded people from the mountains did. Koibur was the only true friend besides Thorn that Cariâthwen ever had. She never talked about Koibu much for she knew not the company she was in. But she had a feeling that Seleven was going to be good company.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Seleven nodded and smiled, "Dwarves are strange folk," he said, "but no doubt the ways of men or elves are strange to them. My father hated them, he once said of Dwarves, 'they hide away, aiding the world not at all. If I had my way, they'd be cast to the sea.' old fool." Seleven stopped himself before he said something harsh. Although he had not liked his father, he still had to respect him, even if he was a tyrant.

"Seldome is it heard," he continued, "that in these days, Sindarin Elves make friendship with Dwarves. Unless they were Legolas of the woodland realm and Gimli, Gloin's son. But they are rare cases. Magnificent folk, really, a little crazy about Gold, but they have good hearts deep down."

An old Hobbit dashed behind Cariâthwen, he was shouting and making a noise about something to a friend of his across the room. Seleven smiled and placed the pipe in his mouth once again, looking towards Cariâthwen with a sense of familiarity. The Green Dragon had gained a reputation of being a place where you can meet unusual folk, a reputation the Hobbits were not at all happy with, but the Inn enjoyed the extra business.

"I say," said Seleven as he leant forwards, "you're an elf of Lorien, perhaps you know, or heard tell of the Haradrim leader Smilog. I see from your face that you have not, perhaps that is good." He fished in his pack for another piece of paper, he drew it and read aloud.

"From the Lord high King of all in South Gondor to the self proclaimed watchman of the tower upon Anruin, Greetings.

"I Smilog, Lord and master of all Lands south of your post declare that you are trespassing on land that belongs solely to Sauron and to me. I give you till noon upon the fourth day since midyear to leave your post and return to Minas Tirith. Else we shall take your hold by force.

"May your fear by unbound,
"Smilog, King and Emperor."

Seleven shook his head and placed the paper back in his pack, "A sad tale really," he explained, "Smilog was once called Túlan, and was a good friend of mine, before the War of the Ring when he joined the haradrim. He thinks himself mighty and calls himself Lord of lands he hath not conquered. His strength was not in arms, but in fear he struck to hearts. He had, it was said, met a Nazgul, and was therefore untouchable by fear of death." Seleven snorted, "That was later proven false. Ah, but look at me, rambling on like an old tale weaver. Do tell me some of your history, I do love tales and adventures told in tales." he leant back with his pipe in his mouth and a glass of port in the left hand.

[piosenniel]

Cook gives some firm instructions to the Stablemaster

‘Should I fetch him? He’s in the garden weeding, I think . . .’ Wren’s bright voice trailed off as she waited for Cook to answer.

‘Let me just finish this here, child,’ said Cook, dipping into her chest of medicines. Ginger had placed it on the table and was standing at the ready with a roll of linen bandage.

Meriadoc winced as she poured a little cleansing concoction of some clear alcohol with herbs in it over the wound, and might have withdrawn his foot from Cook’s grasp save for the fact she had a good grip on it. He relaxed a bit as she deftly applied a soothing unguent over all. A wad of moss wrapped in a small clean cloth came next, then Cook took the bandage from Ginger’s hand and wrapped it securely about the Hobbit’s foot. ‘Ginger, go down to the basement, if you will, and fetch up a couple of those crutches hung on the south wall.’ She turned her gaze back to the Stablemaster. ‘You stay off that foot now and better yet, just sit or lay down for the next few days where you can keep it propped up.’

Cook tut-tutted the frowning Hobbit, knowing he was going to tell her how much work there was needed to be done. ‘Tie you to a chair myself, if you don’t follow my instructions, Master Meriadoc!’ she said in a firm, unmovable tone. ‘And besides . . .’ she turned to look at Wren with a nod. ‘Didn’t she just say her brother was an able hand with horses? And any lad his age knows his way around a shovel and pitchfork.’ She raised her brows as she regarded Meri. ‘Let him be your legs for the while. You can set yourself up like the King himself on a chair in the center of things and direct him as you like. Just keep the leg propped up on something.’

The Stablemaster grumbled and glowered a bit. But Cook sat looking at him; her presence like a thick stone wall. No way over, under or around her, he decided. Meri turned to Wren and let out a long breath with a hmmph at the end. ‘You say he’s an able lad with horses, do you Miss?’ The girl nodded her head. ‘Well, I suppose we can give him a try out. Mind you,’ he said, looking at Cook, ‘if it doesn’t work out, we’ll have to be finding someone else. Can’t have the Inn’s stables done up shoddy or the horses not attended to.’ He crossed his arms over his chest resolutely. ‘The Dragon has a reputation to uphold. Won’t have it tarnished on my watch.’

‘Well, of course not, Master Stablemaster! No one’s asking you to. Just give the lad a try like you said.’ Cook got up from her chair and tidied the contents of her medicine chest before it would be put away. ‘Wren, dear,’ she said, as she counted the number of bandage rolls left in chest then closed its lid securely, ‘why don’t you just go out and fetch your brother. Tell him Master Meriadoc would like to speak with him.’

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

When Frór heard the voice of Ibun Lodestone a small smile appeard on he's face. This was truly a plesant suprise, to meet a fellow dwarf such a longway from his home.

He turned to greet him in a proper way when he heard the word Khazad-dum, it made him speach less. For his inner eyes Frór saw the great halls of Durin, how he longed to set eyes on the marwels of the dwarven town.

Then he spoke : Frór of the Iron Hills at your service Master Lodestone. It would be a great honor for me too sit down with a dwarf of Khazad-dum.

[Huan]

Rowan blinked in surprise, her brow furrowing at the curt way in which she’d been addressed. She’d not done anything, she thought, that he could be so upset. She drew one step closer and poked him firmly in one hunched up shoulder.

‘And what’s got into you, my fair tongued singer of yester eve? Did you roll out of bed on the wrong side?’ Quite put off by now, she stamped her foot impatiently as she waited for him to turn.

[Witch_Queen]

Cariâthwen looked at Seleven with amusement and she couldn't help but smile at the tale of adventures. "In my many years of life I have not had many adventures. I have so much life still ahead of me and I will probably spend the rest of my time wondering what would have happened if I would've left with my family." Cariâthwen went on telling Seleven about how she would spend days away from home listening to Koibur tell of his many adventures. The talk of gold and treasures amused her. "I would fall asleep beneath the star filled sky every time he would tell his stories." Cariâthwen didn't like to say that Koibur wasn't a good story teller but he would get off on a tangent about any and everything.

"When my mother decided to leave Middle Earth I was not given the pleasure of journeying with her. I was sent away, told that I must find some way to atone for my past cirmes against the elves. To my mother being friends with Koibur was a crime against her people. Plus I would never had been at home with the other elves." Cariâthwen paused looking down at her soft white hands. Her voice now seemed hollow.

Still with her vision on her hands Cariâthwen proceeded with her tale of adventure. Once her mother had left Middle Earth, Cariâthwen returned to the place she thought of as her home. Koibur had taught Cariâthwen everything about reading and speaking the other languages she might encounter on her journey. She fell asleep one night only to wake up the next morning alone. Koibur had left her a message in dwarvish runes telling her why he had left. Exploring more of the "camp" she saw that Koibur had left his favorite horse which was due to have a colt in a few more months. "I was left alone to take care of Thistle. Thistle didn't last long after she gave birth to a healthy colt."

Cariâthwen told of how she raised Thorn from a colt into the magestic creature he was now. Koibur had always said that if Thistle's colt was a male he would name it Thorn. But had the colt been female her name would had been Cari after Cariâthwen. "I have rode all over the place in search for someone to talk to. I spent the past few years on my way from Gondor where I spent time with my dear cousin." Cariâthwen finally looked up from her hands to see that Seleven's eyes were still open. "Agh! My tales must be boring you. All I know is loss and suffering. Nothing more nothing less."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"I have rode all over the place in search for someone to talk to. I spent the past few years on my way from Gondor where I spent time with my dear cousin." Cariâthwen finally looked up from her hands to see that Seleven's eyes were still open. "Agh! My tales must be boring you. All I know is loss and suffering. Nothing more nothing less."

"Oh, not at all," said Seleven with a smile, "you've had a rough time, that is clear, but as you said, there is still so much of life left for you to live." He placed the pipe on the table and cleared his throat. "So Thorn is a horse, but with a Dwarvish name, is he? A Nice name, I like it, much better than Linú, my horse, he seems to think I'm some kind of extra baggage the way he throws me around. Good grief!" He laughed at the memories.

Cariâthwen smiled at him as he told her of these things, but Selven continued, "So, you have been to Gondor? I lived there for most of my life. Delightful country since the fall of Sauron, still a little unrest with what remain of the Haradrim, but that is so small, very few tales are told of it. I used to be a captain of a watch tower on the south of the Anduin, good solid job, very little trouble till that wretch Smilog came along." he grumbled and picked up his pipe again.

The smell of hobbit food was drifting through the air, soon, even those who were not hungry felt the need to buy some of the Green Dragon's fine food. Even Seleven felt that he should at least try it, if it tasted half as good as it smelled, then it would be fantastic. "Would you like some food?" he asked Cariâthwen with a smirk.

[Koobdooga]

The two Dwarves made their way to Ibun’s table. Ibun motioned for one of the servers to approach. ‘A pitcher of ale, if you please miss!’ he said as he gestured for Frór to take a seat. ‘We’ve got a lot of chin-wagging to do and our throats will get dry as dust.’

Buttercup came out of the kitchen with Frór’s order and looking about for him, finally spied him with Ibun. She placed his pork pie and salad before him along with a foaming mug of ale. The other server had by this time returned with their pitcher of ale and set it on the table between them.

Ibun picked up his fork and tucking his napkin into the neck of his tunic began eating again. Between mouthfuls he asked where Frór was bound; what brought him through the Shire. ‘As for me, Master Frór, I am bound for the Blue Mountains, just beyond the western boundaries of the Shire. It is said that a number of our kin have forges there. We have not heard from them in a score of years or more. It is hoped they are still alright.’

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

As soon as the pork-pie and sallad was set on the table, Frór started too shouffel down the food in a most disgusting way. But Frór could not care less, seldome had he been this hungry.

With a mouth half full of food, he replyed Ibun : Well it seems like fortune finally looks my way, for up until this very moment my jurney has been most unpleasant. You see master Ibun, I my self is heading for the Blue Mountains and quit right you are, some of our kin does have dwelings there. My cousin Náin is amongst them, but to our great greef we have not heard from him in years, but if you do not mind me asking. What do you seek ther witch you do not have allready in the glories halls of Durin?

[Folwren]

‘Wren, dear,’ Cook said, as she counted the number of bandage rolls left in chest then closed its lid securely, ‘why don’t you just go out and fetch your brother. Tell him Master Meriadoc would like to speak with him.’

‘Yes, ma’am!’ Wren said over her shoulder as she turned to go out the door. She ran as swiftly as her feet could carry her to the garden behind the inn. Tim sat among the tomatoes, one arm wrapped around his knees and his other hand working faithfully away at the stubborn weeds. Wren trotted up the path and stood beside her brother, her face beaming, and her hands clasped behind her back. He knew the stance and without looking up, spoke.

‘What?’ he asked with hardly any interest in his voice. ‘You look about ready to burst.’

‘Cook says - that is, we get - I mean, Meriadoc the stablemaster wants to talk to you!’ She turned and ran off, stopping several paces away to add over her shoulder, ‘He’s in the kitchen waiting.’ Tim sat up and stared after his sister, wondering what in the world had gotten into her. With a puzzled expression on his face, he rose and followed her to where she’d disappeared inside the Inn kitchen again. He paused outside the door and brushed his hands off as best he could and then, drawing a deep breath, entered.

‘You wanted me, sir?’ he asked , approaching the hobbit who still sat by the table.

‘Are you Tim?’ Meriadoc asked, casting a critical eye over the lad. Tim, aware that he was being sized up, lifted his head a little bit and stepped towards him.

‘Yes, sir. Tim Woodlock. Wren’s older brother. She said you wanted me.’

‘Yes. Well. I’ve had something of an accident, lad,’ the hobbit said, softened somewhat by Tim’s polite address. Tim glanced at the propped foot and back at Meriadoc’s face and the stablemaster continued. ‘Cook has pressed me to get help until I am better. Your sister here says that you know a bit about horses. Rode a lot when you were at home and helped with the farmers around. What would you think of running the stables, under my watch, until I am up on my feet again?’

Tim was speechless for a moment. He searched the hobbit’s brown eyes carefully, hardly believing his ears. ‘You mean...stay here and help?’

‘Well, you’d be doing most of the work. Cook doesn’t think I can even stand up on the blasted foot!’ Tim blinked. ‘Mind you,’ Meriadoc went on before Tim could make a proper answer, ‘it’s no easy work. There are horses coming in and out of that stable constantly.’

‘Oh, yes, sir, I understand!’ Tim said, suddenly coming to himself and finding his tongue free again. His face flushed with sudden excitement and his eyes shone. ‘I would love to! If you really need me, I think I could do it. I mean, I know a lot about horses...I can brush them and saddle them, and I know how to feed them and - and clean their stalls and all that. There was a-’ but he stopped himself and started off on another track, one more fitting, he figured. ‘Thank you very much, sir. I’ll do it for you. I’m sure I can manage it. I’ll work real hard.’

Meriadoc’s face softened to something close to a smile. ‘I’m sure you will, lad. Well, Ginger’s come up with these crutches,’ he went on, looking at the unwieldy things that were propped up next to his chair. ‘Guess I’ll get used to them while I show you the rounds.’ With a bit of Tim’s help, the stablemaster got to his feet and they went out to the stables together. Wren remained in the kitchen, for the first time since her parent’s death completely excited and happy.

[Arry]

Gil choked on his mouthful of ale, spluttering as he attempted to swallow it. He blanched at the sound of the familiar voice then red stained his cheekbones as he turned to face its source.

And there she stood, the original reason his mood had fallen so far into a funk. There she stood, unaware of the discomfort she had . . . was . . . causing him.

Wiping the foam and dribbles from his lips and chin with the sleeve of his tunic, he grinned sheepishly at her. He stood up hastily, knocking his chair over, and croaked out her name. ‘Rowan!’ The effort of talking brought on a round of coughing.

[Alcarillo]

Alcarillo had now sat for many minutes alone. Miz Greengage had run off, and so Alcarillo amused himself by watching the many visitors to the inn come and go. He was amused by great diversity of people: halflings (or as he learnt that they called themselves, hobbits), dwarves, men, and even other elves like himself. Now that the many dangers of the wild had passed with Sauron, many more travelers were on the roads, seeking adventure.

Alcarillo's mind drifted through thought after thought. I would like to visit this place again, he thought, it really is pleasant here. After a few more minutes of sitting and thinking, Alcarillo stood, and decided to bring his pen down from his room upstairs. He moved through the guests, and towards the creaky stairs. The voices faded and soon he was in the small rented room, where his belongings sat on the bed. His arm dove into a knapsack, and he retrieved a slender wooden box. He slipped this into a hidden pocket of his cloak and went back to the common room.

Alcarillo resumed his place at the empty table, where he produced the wooden box and the red notebook from their hiding places. Inside the box was an elegant pen, which he removed and laid before him. He returned the box to his cloak, and opened the notebook. He would draw the common room. Alcarillo was a fair hand at sketching people, and considered himself to be a better than average artist. And so Alcarillo flipped his small book to a blank page and began.

With each stroke of his pen the picture became more and more complete. He added in the sillhouettes of visitors and shaded in the walls. Soon it was completed. With nothing else to do, Alcarillo made up his mind that it was time to leave. He crept up to his room and gathered his belongings. He came back downstars, and placed a handful of golden coins on the table he frequented. Then, with one last look at the faces in the common room, he walked into the sunshine outside.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim wandered about the grounds of the Inn impatiently, wondering when his cart would arrive. He took an apple out of his pocket and began munching at it pensively. When it was gone he produced another, and then another, until three apple-cores were neatly piled beneath one of the many trees of the yard. Automatically his hand went back to his pocket but his disappointed fingers encountered only his trusty pocketknife. Now thoroughly dejected, the little fellow slumped to the ground beside the pile of apple-cores and waited.

He did not have to wait long, although it was not a cart full of his beer that relieved him of the burden, but a small hobbit lad who lounged by on the road looking as though he had little to do other than lounge. “Hoy there!” Fordogrim called. “What’s yer name then, lad?”

The boy perked out at him, “Pimple, sir! Pimple Boffin!”

“Well then, PimplesirPimple Boffin,” he replied playfully, “there’s a copper or two for you if you run down the road toward Hobbiton and give me word of a cart.”

“What cart, sir?”

“Well not just any cart, that’s for sure. My cart is what I mean. It’s a large blue cart with great green wheels and my two woolly-headed cousins Fatty and Gerdy Chubb will be a-driving it. Now run along now and let me know.”

“No need to run along, sir. I’ve just seen that cart not two minutes ago coming up the hill.” Fordogrim leapt to his feet and rushed to the boy, taking him by the hand and shaking it energetically.

“That’s fine news, my lad Pimple, fine news indeed. Here, have a shilling!” The boy looked at the coin in his hand in awe and ran away singing about the pies he would buy. At that very moment there hove into view the very same cart that Fordogrim had described driven by the very same cousins. The two large ponies, which he had neglected to describe, were tired after their journey but at the sight and smell of the Inn they lifted their legs with new energy. Fatty was the first to dismount from the cart, for despite his name he was a narrow and nimble fellow. “Fordo!” he cried, clasping his cousin by the shoulders. “I’m sure you had given up on us, but I told you we would be here this day.”

“Ay, and that you did my dear, that you did! And how was the journey?” They talked quickly about the trip from the Westfarthing and of the many trials of the road (including one broken axle and two missed meals). The three hobbits moved quickly about the cart unloading three of the casks that it bore and quickly setting out a trestle table in the middle of the yard. They put the casks upon it and with three quick knocks soon had taps in them. From under the seat Gerdy produced two whole racks of pewter mugs that clattered happily on the tabletop. When all was in order Fordogrim tilted his head to one side and appraised it. At his insistence the table had been set up at a height comfortable for himself leaving the beer only a foot’s breadth above the ground but he pronounced it capital. Grinning from ear to ear he turned toward the Inn.

The arrival of the cousins (and the ponies, who were looking at Fordogrim quite disheartened, wondering when they would be remembered and given some oats), along with the subsequent clatter had brought a fair crowd of curious faces to the windows of the Inn. Fordogrim bowed low to them all before speaking in his best tones. “Welcome and greetings to the people of Bywater!” he began formally. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fordogrim Chubb of Gamwich and these are my cousins Fatty and Gerdy Chubb. We are brewers of the finest ales and beers, stouts and bitters in all the Westfarthing and we have come to these parts to demonstrate that our brews are worthy of your patronage. So for Today Only” he wanted this point to be particularly clear, “three of our best beers, Old Stout, Mellow Ale and – my particular favourite – Gamwich Gold will be yours absolutely free of charge! And when you find that these are the best beers as you’ve ever had, I hope that you’ll feel like telling your friends of Fordogrim Chubb, Brewer!”

Feren had intended to be drunk. The young man might have achieved his purpose, if he hadn't drawn up a stool by the windowsill as nicely inconspicuous (or so he thought) - and be disturbed by a commotion outside and curious drinkers gathering around him. As if he hadn’t enough to deal with. Feren raised his eyes above the rim of the still-foaming mug, reluctantly, to the ridiculous sight of two ponies and a hobbit shouting about something or other. A round of hearty applause and cheers met the announcement of the pompous hobbit, presumably the owner of Fordogrimm-Chubb Inc. The dozers by the bar roused long enough to clang their mugs and show their approval. How perfectly nice. As he looked out, the hobbit - do they all have such unrememberable names? - busied himself setting out the kegs of ale on the makeshift table. That being finished, he scuttled about offering his hands to anyone who would shake, and many who'd rather not.

The muscles in the face of Feren twisted for a moment, as if he wanted to smile and thought better of it at the last instant. Then he tore his gaze away from the window. Folks around him were thinning, most heading for the gate to get their free drinks. Soon enough, he was the only one left in the vicinity.

It suited him just as well. Feren retreated into a corner of the inn, which had its odd spots of dirty corners despite the brightly-lit and cheerful surroundings that grated upon his nerves. He found his niche, settled limply into it and let his weary body sink into the coarse padding of the chair. His gray eyes restlessly encompassed the whole tavern before flickering back to his yet untasted mug of beer. Then, when he was sure that no one but the barmaid and a small number of hobbits were able to see him like this, the young man buried his head in his arms and let out a long-suppressed sigh, letting the tickling laughter of the hobbits outside wash over him.

If he was crying, it would have been quite admissible for him - he had nowhere to go anymore. Nowhere, but Gondor, or back to.... Back to...

[Folwren]

‘There’s a bit of a stir outside,’ Tim said as he and the stablemaster finished their rounds and came towards the wide open doors of the stable. They stopped in the opening, blinking in the sunlight after the dimness of the barn, and looked out.

‘Why that’s Fordogrim Chub with his ale!’ Meriadoc cried. ‘Almost better than that at the Dragon! Let’s go see what’s up, Tim.’ Tim trailed behind the stablemaster as the hobbit limped, crutches and all, towards the group of people standing around the extraordinarily short Fordogrim and his table and ale casks.

Meriadoc pushed his way into the middle and there finding what the cause of all the merriment was, forgot all his troubles and joined in, getting himself a pint of the Gamwich Gold. Tim, on the other hand, remained on the outskirts of the all the people. He glanced around and caught sight of the two tired ponies, still harnessed to the cart. One stretched it’s neck and tugged at the reins, getting no where in the process - the driver had tied them to the seat. The other stood with his head down on the level of its knees, one back foot resting, and blinking wearily.

Tim sighed with pity and walked towards them. He laid his hand gently on the nearest pony's forelock and stroked him while he glanced around for someone to ask if he could do anything for them. He quickly caught sight of a hobbit leaning on the wheel, and with the way that he stood back so nonchalantly with no mug in his hand, and no cares on his face, he assumed he would probably be a good person to ask.

‘Excuse me,’ Tim said, approaching him. The hobbit (it was Gerdy Chub, though Tim didn’t know it) turned and looked at him. ‘Are these your ponies? Should I unharness them and take them to water?’

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Gerdy roused himself about as much as he could do something other than lounge and addressed himself to the serious matter of the tall Man’s question about the ponies. “Well now,” he began, “the ponies you say? Hmmmm…..that’s a good question. They have been a-working very hard to get this here ale to the Inn, and that’s a fact, and it’s also just as true as they’ve not had a rest or a bite to eat or a sip of water nigh on….oh….well, let’s see, there was that well just outside of town where we stopped to get some water, but it was a bit dry and we didn’t feel it was right to take the last drops from a stranger’s lips. But there was that creek about an hour before then that they had a good drink from, but it was a bit muddy and I’m not sure as they had their fill…” It was Fatty who came to Tim’s rescue at this point.

“Ah, Gerdy” he said. “What’s this, eh? Chewing on the fat with people when there’s work to be done?”

“Ah, brother Fatty, I was just a-telling this here Man about the last time our ponies had some water. It was in that creek, but if you remember, it was right muddy…”

Fatty, who apparently had great experience with his brother’s manner, interrupted him before he could get started. “That’s right it was, brother Gerdy, that it was. But I believe I overheard the young master as asking if the ponies need some attention, and you were saying just as we came up as they were looking that tired, so why don’t you unharness them so as we can get them into some comfortable stalls.”

As Gerdy began unhitching the animals, Fatty quietly took Tim to one side and whispered in his ear, “You’ll have to excuse Gerdy, master. It’s not that he’s foolish or woolly between the ears – not a bit of it! He’ll stare his way through a brick wall in time, but it will take him a good amount of time. He’s rather methodical in the way he thinks and that can be a bit trying to those as don’t know him.” Tim politely assured the hobbit that he had found it no trial. “Well that’s quite capital of you, master. Capital indeed. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Fredegar Chubb, but you shall call me Fatty as does everyone else. I may not be much to look at yet, but I plan on becoming quite robust some day! My brother and I are in the employ of our cousin – our third cousin, once removed, to be precise – our cousin Fordogrim. And I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, young master and would be greatly pleased to know your name.”

[Thinlómien]

Unnoticed for a while, a young woman called Brith stood diffidently in the doorway of the inn. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed and clothed in a blue and brown traveler's garb. Brith's appearance and clothing showed clearly that she was from Gondor.

Brith watched the hobbits a bit confused. She wondered if there were such a mess and babbling every day. For a brief moment, she thought about entering, but her courage failed. These little people. They make me so confused, she thought. Then she just stood a while in the doorway watching the little people with a tiny smile.

While standing in the doorway Brith watched the people in the inn. Soon she noticed that not all of the people there were halflings. She saw two dwarves sitting in one table talking with each other. Then a tall woman - who had to be an elf - talking with a gondorian man caught her eye. When I first see an elf, of all places it happens to be in here, in this countryside land of halflings. Not in Minas Tirith or in Dol Amroth, but here in this little countryside inn in a little farmer country in the middle of wilderness..., she thought shooking her head. Also noticing the companion of the elf, she shooked her head again wondering if this was such a small, quiet and peaceful place she had thought this to be.

[Kath]

Having filled herself up with the wonderful food from the Inn's kitchens, Astilwen had made her way back outside, enjoying the fresh air of the morning. The gardens looked different than they had the night before and as there was no one outside aside from those arriving, she took her time perusing the various flowers and herbs.

She had been watching the new arrivals with some interest, as she had never seen so many people from so many different races all congregate in one place before. She liked to make up a history for each person she saw as they entered. Sometimes it was easy, she could tell if they had been travelling long by the state of their clothes, or if they were hungry by the speed at which they entered the Inn! She could also distinguish the animal lovers, as they tended to their horses before themselves. But now there was a new arrival, one that she had trouble making a history for.

A big people woman had arrived but had not gone further than the doorway. She was smiling, and seemed to be mostly at ease, but she was not entering the Inn. Confused, Astilwen watched her for a while but still the woman just stood at looked at something inside, and her innate curioisty got the better of her. She approached the stranger.

"Excuse me miss, but is something wrong? You'll be quite welcome inside you know."

[Huan]

‘Well, clap him hard on the back, Mistress Foxburr!’ came the amused voice of Emlin from behind Rowan’s back. He had stepped up so quietly, she had not heard him. And now, bent over slightly, he peered around her back.

She followed his direction and stepping near the distressed Hobbit, gave the still coughing Gil a good hard whack mid back. The air whoofed from him in a sudden exhalation, then came back in as he straightened up . . . without coughing.

His face was pale as he turned round to her. His cheeks flaming like a robin’s breast against the last snows of winter. A little ways aprt stood Emlin, looking closely at the pair, his brows raised.

[Koobdooga]

‘What do you seek there which you do not have already in the glorious halls of Durin?’ asked Frór. Ibun considered the question carefully before answering.

‘The halls are glorious. You have the right of that. Though, we are still in the process of repairing and restoring the great damage that Durin’s Bane made when he was loosed. And the last of the Orcs have been driven out of the cavern . . . they, too, I am sad to say caused much mischief.’ He shook his head, his eyes hard with anger at all that had been done to mar the great halls beneath the mountains. ‘Sorrier, though, are we that after all the wars against us, our number are much fewer than before.’ He took a pull at his ale. ‘King Durin VII has sent out messengers, such as myself, to the north and to the west, seeking those families of the Longbeards who once dwelt in Khazad-dum . . . inviting them back to dwell there in their ancient halls and rebuild it once more.’

Ibun pushed his half empty plate away from him. Fishing in his vest pocket he drew out his pouch of pipeweed. ‘I say, Frór. When you’re done with your meal there, might I offer you a pipeful?’

[Undómë]

Esgallhugwen is thanked for her assistance

Teluyaviel’s cheeks had crimsoned as the older Elven lady came over to help. What must she think of Tindomion and her and the mess they had managed to make?

Tindo, for his part, gave an exasperated sigh and went tromping off toward the kitchen in search of a broom. Oh, thank the stars he did not make some rude remark about clumsy Halflings in front of the Lady! Telu thought.

It had not been his wish to travel from Lindon to Ithilien, nor even to set foot in the Shire again. Had he his way they would be on the next ship West. But . . . he’d promised his mother he would watch out for his younger sister, Telu. His dear mother who was now most likely awaiting their father’s departure from Mandos’ Halls in the fair West. His sister had declined to go, saying she did not hear the sea call as yet, and so he had made that binding promise thinking that soon her thoughts would turn to their family and she would surely want to go.

But Telu’s heart was set on the new Ithilien, having heard that a number of their kin from the Woodland Realm had gone there to settle. And to his vexation, she remained firm in her desire to continue their eastward journey.

In good time he was back with the broom, having braved the fierce, grey haired matron who commanded the kitchen. He’d had to make a full report to her why her broom was needed. And she had clucked her tongue at him, indicating she thought the whole incident most likely his fault. At any rate, the mess was cleaned up and the Halfling had graciously taken their orders, saying that perhaps it would be best if they just waited for her at their table.

Telu gathered her wits about her and drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly to calm herself. ‘My thanks to you for your help,’ she told the Elven lady. ‘My name is Teluyaviel and this is my brother, Tindomion. Telu and Tindo, if you will. We are traveling through the Shire, from Lindon. May I ask who it is I have the pleasure of greeting?’

[Amanaduial the archer]

Hearing the clattering from upstairs where she had been doing the books, Aman looked up, irritated by the distraction, but not overly so: doing the accounts and paperwork of the Green Dragon was a task she had been avoiding for the past month, and of course this had only served to make it even larger and more arduous then it already was. And dull. Don't forget dull. There are some minds in the world of Middle Earth, as there are in any world, to which the sight of numbers lining up perfectly, fitting in and slotting together by some magic that is called numerical logic, would be almost exciting. Mind to whom accounts could even be considered, well...satisfying.

The Innkeeper was certainly not possessed of such a mind.

Aman's desk was positioned by the window, allowing her the beautiful rural views across the Shire that her room afforded, and the healthy country breeze that stopped her from going entirely mad when locked in a room with only paperwork for company - after all, such a roommate did make for a rather dubious companion - but because of the shape of the Inn's sloping roof, she could not quite see the path that ran in front of the Inn while she was seated. So when she heard the disturbance growing outside, and the sound of people flocking together at the slightest hint of excitement, as they are apt to do on a sleepy day in such rural setting when there is nothing else immediately pressing on their time - after all, in such a setting, when is there ever really such a press on one's time? - she rose from her seat, curious. Pushing open the window and leaning out of it so as to have a clear view of the path, Aman was just in time to see the diminuitive figure of a really quite exceptionally diminuitive figure leap onto the back of a cart and begin his bold annoucement.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the little hobbit began, with so pompous and authorative an air that Aman found herself smiling but attentive. "I am Fordogrim Chubb of Gamwich and these are my cousins Fatty and Gerdy Chubb. We are brewers of the finest ales and beers, stouts and bitters in all the Westfarthing and we have come to these parts to demonstrate that our brews are worthy of your patronage. So for Today Only" - the capitals on the words were so clearly audible that Aman knew that what was about to follow would be very good or... "Three of our best beers, Old Stout, Mellow Ale and – my particular favourite – Gamwich Gold will be yours absolutely free of charge! And when you find that these are the best beers as you’ve ever had, I hope that you’ll feel like telling your friends of Fordogrim Chubb, Brewer!"

...or not so very good. Aman's eyebrows shot up and she almost fell out of the window. Free ale? Outside her Inn? Now Aman was not by nature a mean-spirited woman, far from it, and often she disagreed with Cook on her kind-heartedness of giving free meals to half the waifs and strays in Bywater...but there was a line, and when such a fellow decided to give free beers out to every potential customer in Bywater...well, frankly, the line was so far that the line was now a dot.

"What the..." she breathed. "Excuse me, you sir, Mister Chubb!"

The little hobbit spun around to face the Innkeeper with the unflappable finesse and showmanship of a ringmaster. "Yes, ma'am, the lady on the roof?" - a fair enough judgement, Aman supposed, bearing in mind that she was almost hanging onto the roof at this point. Raising one eyebrow sardonically, she replied, "Sir, this is my Inn - would you not have cared to mention such an offer to me first?"

For the first time, Fordogrim Chubb looked slightly sheepish - and it was only ever-so-slightly, enough maybe to be mistaken for a passing sneeze of a change of the wind, but nevertheless - before he replied. "Ah," he said, grinning ruefully. "I was wondering whether we would come to that." Building himself up again, the hobbit's diminuitive frame seemed to once more swell visibly. "But dear lady, you would surely not deny your thirsty customers the chance of some free - and, if I may say so, quite splendid - refreshments?"

The little hobbit's cockiness drew a few laughs from the watching audience, and even Aman smiled a little. "Mister Chubb, there is a line for these things, a line beyond which things may become quite tricky." She paused for effect - showmanship, after all, is rather contagious at time - before adding, "Mister Chubb, the line...the line is a dot."

The comment, however enigmatic, drew another laugh from the audience, and even Mr. Chubb smiled a little, a small acknowledgement of the Innkeeper's point. Aman rolled her eyes and made a show of giving a great sigh before she retreated from the window and headed for the Common Room, where she and Mr. Chubb could talk more easily. She had, really, no strong feelings about his giving away free ale - so long as it was as good as he professed, for the 'Dragon had a reputation to live up to - but it was generally agreed, or so she had been led to believe, that doing business from a rooftop was not quite conventional, and to be frowned upon in many circles of society.

Not, of course, that the Innkeeper cared much for circles of society, of that they even particularly crossed her mind at this stage. But, as it has previously said, a month's worth of accumulated paperwork really can be very dull.

[The riders of Rohaan]

Name: Grimy
Age:24
Race: Hobbit
Gender:male
Weapons: A sword given to him by his grandfather and a coat of mythril with his name engraved on it. and a helmet.
Personality:
Just a normal little hobbit happy playing his flute and has a peaceful nature and a hunger for adventure. Good at sword fighting skills just enough to defend himself and he loves fighting with Goblins. He hates orcs as they are too poerwful for him but can take down quite a few.
Appearance
Hat on the head no shoes just a cloak and clothes same like frodo.

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Please check your PM's

~*~ Piosenniel, Shire Moderator

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

Originally Posted by Ibun

‘I say, Frór. When you’re done with your meal there, might I offer you a pipeful?’

Frór promptly replyed : I must say that you are a most generus dwarf Master Ibun ! !
This is a offer a cannot refuse. Many days have gone since i last smelld the superb smell of pipe weed.

As he finished his meal Frór was thinking of the great wounds a creature like "Durins Bane" could give, even the greatest of halls. Then a darknest gatherd in Frór's mind, he did not know why, but it became clear to him that his fate was bound to the misty mountains that he feard so much. "a dwarf scared of mountains it is unheard of! he thought to him self".

His thought returned to Ibun and his jurney. Frór could not belive that the dwarves of Khazad-dum was in such dire need, that they were searching in every dwarf colony for Longbeards. This was i deed bad news, but then again it might be his fortune!

Frór then looked at Ibun and spoke:
Tell me Master Ibun. witch way are you planing on taking out of this funny land, to the Blue Mountains. As i sayed, i my self are heading towards the dwarf dwellings there, so it would be most usefull information if you cared to share it.

[Folwren]

"Allow me to introduce myself: I am Fredegar Chubb, but you shall call me Fatty as does everyone else. I may not be much to look at yet, but I plan on becoming quite robust some day! My brother and I are in the employ of our cousin – our third cousin, once removed, to be precise – our cousin Fordogrim. And I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, young master and would be greatly pleased to know your name.”

Tim gaped slightly as he took Fredagar's offered hand. Then he shut his mouth and nodded. "I'm Tim. Tim Woodlock, sir. And..." he paused. Perhaps it wouldn't be polite to tell the hobbit not to call him 'master'. But it was awfully uncomfortable. Especially if everyone called him that. He'd leave it alone. "I can take one of the ponies," he said instead. "Your brother doesn't have to get them both." Fatty nodded and Tim turned around and silently took one of the ponies bridle. He and Gerdy led them to the water trough beside the inn wall and let them drink their fill.

"How long are you going to be here?" Tim asked, as he watched them drink. "Should I put them up in a stall, or just hitch them over there?" He indicated to the hitching posts and, forgetting momentarilly how Gerdy might go on forever, waited for the hobbit's reply.

[Thinlómien]

Brith was so carried away with her thoughts, that it took a while for her to realise that someone had spoken to her. She saw a halfling looking up at her curiously. "Oh, yes, I'm fine, miss", she said a bit embarassed. "Thank you", she added a bit more warmly and even managed to smile.

Brith entered the inn and sat to an empty table nearby. She was happy to give her body some rest for the day's riding. She let her eyes wander around the room. She didn't see any waiters or such, but decided to stay at the table. Probably someone will come, at least if not soon, then later. It's not so important, actually, she thought, Probably this is all because of the thing of serving free beer outside. Well, I'd prefer warm food and some wine, if they have, to a pint of beer.

[Dunwen]

Widow Rosebank rinsed her face and hands, taking pleasure in the feel of the clean warm water on her skin. The roads in the Shire were not nearly as dusty as the Great Road from Bree to the Brandywine Bridge, and she had traveled only a short distance that morning, but she had discovered that she did like to freshen up after traveling. Normally she would have cleaned up right after breakfast, but she had been sidetracked by the friendly hobbit, Miz Bella. Drying her face and hands, the widow thought of her ‘sale’ of threads to Miz Bella and shook her head. She had certainly done her purse no favor!

‘Ah well,’ she thought, ‘there’s other profit besides gold and silver.’ The teacher seemed to be a person of some importance at the Green Dragon; besides, Ebba Rosebank had a high regard for teachers. Ebba hoped Miz Bella might put in a good word for her if she could fine someone to talk to about selling her goods at this fair she’d heard about.

Having finally cornered one of the serving girls and paid for a room at the Green Dragon for a few days, Ebba needed to unpack her things. The two large leather saddlebags had been tossed on the wooden chair near the large bed (at least large by hobbit standards; even though she was a small Woman, Ebba would have been cramped in hobbit-sized furniture). Placing them on the bed, Ebba took out a change of clothes and neatly arranged her personal belongings in the clothes press cleverly built into one corner of the room. Her remaining merchandise was a bit of a problem, though. There wasn’t a lot, as she had had to fit it into one of her bags, but Ebba didn’t care to have her goods out for the taking. The Green Dragon was clearly a decent respectable house, but thieves could visit even the nicest places. After changing, she looked around the small room to see if there was a secure place for her merchandise.

The door opened to show a small washstand with a pitcher and bowl along the right-hand wall, with a mirror above it. Directly opposite the door was a window with a chair in front of it, inviting a guest to sit down and enjoy the bright midday sun shining in. The bed, covered with a pretty blue and green quilt, was next to the chair and window, with a night stand beyond it in the corner. The clothes press was a medium-sized cupboard at the angle of the walls closest to the foot of the bed. Between the clothes press and the doorway, opposite the foot of the bed, a row of pegs held Widow Rosebank’s now-empty saddlebags, the breeches and the blouse she’d traveled in, and the woolen cloak she’d brought in case of bad weather.

Ebba shut the door and pondered the small, plain room. “I don’t think you could hide a mouse’s whisker in here,” she said to herself. Suddenly a thought struck her. “Aha,” she exclaimed. After rearranging a few things, she stood by door and looked around the room once more. It wasn’t perfectly safe, but at least now there was no sign of the things she’d brought with her to sell.

As long as the whereabouts of the innkeeper continued to be a mystery, Ebba would see if she could coax some information out of the cook. The hobbit that had shown her up to the room (Ruby, was it?) Had shown a lively fear of the ruler of the Green Dragons kitchen, but had stammered out a name: Vinca Bunce.

[Arry]

‘Thanks . . . I think . . . I mean yes, thanks.’ Gil stammered, the red from his cheeks flaming up to his ears.

Good gravy! What was the matter with him? He felt hot and cold and quite unable to speak. And there was Rowan staring at him in a curious manner. And beyond her, the Elf . . . whose brows were raised so high they nearly met his hairline.

‘Look,’ he said, taking a deep breath and trying to stand casually. ‘We . . . I seem to have gotten off to a bad start. Let’s try again.’

Gil pulled out the chair to his right and nodded at Rowan. ‘Would you like to break your fast with me, Miss Foxburr?’ he asked gaining back a little of his composure. He managed a little grin. ‘Or if you’ve already eaten . . . then a little second breakfast perhaps?’

Emlin nodded at the little scene. He seemed to smile a bit, then waved good-bye as he headed toward the Inn door . . .

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger and Wren encounter the Widow Rosebank

‘One of the lasses had to go home to be with her sick Da,’ Buttercup said, motioning for Ginger and Wren to draw closer to the linen cupboard. ‘The guests will be needing fresh towels and washcloths for the day. So, take these two stacks upstairs,’ instructed Buttercup, ‘and put fresh ones by the wash stand. Make sure you knock first so’s you don’t disturb anybody. Just leave the used towels and such in the hall, the laundry girl will go through after you and pick them up in her basket.’ She loaded up Ginger’s arms with a tall stack of fluffy towels topped with an equal number of wash cloths. ‘Take Wren, too. She can take this basket of fresh cut flowers up and put them in the vases.’

Ginger couldn’t see over the stack of towels as she and Wren made their way down the first hall, where many of the Big Folk were staying in the larger sized rooms. Wren followed along behind, her view blacked by ginger and her load.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ yelped Ginger as she bounced off something in front of her. The towels spilled from her arms and landed at the woman’s feet. ‘My gosh! Are you alright? Did I hurt you?’ Ginger flushed a deep pink, setting off the sprinkle of sandy freckles that played across her nose. She hurriedly picked up the fallen towels trying to put them in some semblance of order.

In an effort to regain her composure, she curtsied to the woman and nodded toward the room the woman had apparently just left. ‘We’re bringing round fresh towels and face cloths . . . and flowers, too. Could we leave some for you, ma’am?’