The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[JennyHallu]

Losse smiled at the elven woman. She had met elves before, tall, fair beings working in the streets to restore the Citadel, to make it into a fair garden as it should have been since the beginning. They inspired respect and love, to an extent, pulling from her the most genteel of the courtly manners she had learned of her mother. They were great and inscrutable and good...but in a way that seemed as far removed from her ken as...oh...as the stars must be to them, who were fascinated by them. This was the first she had ever met of elvenkind that struck her as a true innocent. It almost felt like Telu was younger than herself, in some inexplicable way, and the feeling, coupled with the woman's ageless, ethereal features, was...

Unsettling.

"My mother told me there was nothing that was not worth knowing, my lady. And though some doubt me, I am nothing if not a patriot. I love my King and my City, and it is said that he has reunited the long-sundered realms of Gondor and Arnor. Those of Dol Amroth by the Sea remember tales of old of Arnor, and even older tales of the Sea, which they love...my mother told them to me on her knee. Tales of beautiful places and high adventure; fascinating to me. The blood of my fathers in Numenor runs true in me. I have seen the Sea, and ached for it...perhaps I understand the call it has for your kind, a little. But that door is closed for Men, so...

I came here." She paused, having surprised herself a little at the depth of her own emotions. She hadn't stopped to think so much of where she would go, but she had never wavered from the need to come here, and now she had no doubt but that this was the reason. "As for prudence, I daresay the gentleman, your companion understands me well enough, but to you I will say only that most people have not your grace, my lady, and though they truly desire to...ahem...make my acquaintance? I will have none of their gifts."

[Farael]

“I am nothing if not a patriot”

That last comment crossed a line in Farael’s mind. One thing was to be a thief… well, he was a bit of a thrill seeker and while he made different (and better, he thought) choices, he might even tolerate this girl’s presence, for Telu’s sake. But to call herself a patriot? A rat would describe her better. He had to done something about it, and he knew exactly what to do. With a grin that might have been mistaken for a smile, he invited Losse out for a dance. “…for I am also from Gondor, and quite patriotic at that. It would certainly be a honor to dance with a fine Gondorian lady. “

He winked at Teluyaviel, hoping she would forgive him for what he was about to do. He told his elven friend he’d be back soon and started making his way towards the dance floor, hardly waiting for Losse’s answer.

[JennyHallu]

I am also from Gondor...

Losse felt a tremor of fear at his words, but quickly pushed it aside. Gondor was a large place, and she had probably overreacted when she left the city in the first place. Besides, I run the risk of becoming a bit egotistical if my first thought on meeting a countryman is that he must have heard of me. And I seriously doubt this honor-bound soldier ever even heard of Damiel, if he's even been home any later than I have.

"I would gladly share a dance with you, if my lady doesn't mind," she said, waiting for the Elven woman's friendly nod before she followed Farael towards the dancing green. The two seemed rather...friendly, and the last thing she wished to do was find herself dealing with a jealous woman, Elf or not. Tended to complicate things.

She took Farael's arm as she caught up with him. "Really, I've been told I'm a fair dancer. Took up with an acrobatic troupe for a while once, and they taught me a fair bit. And my mother taught me court dances." She smiled at him, enjoying the evening and the company with a good will. She'd seen the small purse firmly tied at his belt, of course, and eventually she would probably take it, but she had coin for a while if she needed it, and was careful. Even when she did nick it, it would be with no hard feelings, and since he knew her profession, it wouldn't be until she was ready to leave the Shire. Momentarily she wondered if he'd realize it wasn't personal, doubted it, and pushed the idea cheerfully to the back of her mind. As the two stepped into the set, she threw herself into the dance with a good will, proving herself to be not a fair, but an excellent dancer.

[Kath]

It had shocked Astilwen to learn that the woman in front of her didn't even remember her own name she had been running from her past for so long. The death of a loved one was thankfully something she had never had to endure, but she had been around those who had, and knew the pain and grief that went with it.

It seemed though that this snake had destroyed not only the life of one sister, but also of Tilionwen herself, and very likely that of her father as well. For years the poor man must have thought that both of his daughters were dead. She wondered whether the woman had thought about it like that, which was better - to believe both daughters were dead or to know one was alive? Still, it was not her place to say anything.

She understood now why Tilionwen had been staring so intently at the Moon, and why she was so sad. She had suffered so much, and Astilwen couldn't yet work out whether she blamed herself for her sister's death, or whether she believed some other force had sent the rain that forced them to stay outside, and the snake that had delivered the deadly blow.

Gently smiling back at Tilionwen's comment Astliwen noted the sudden silence that had fallen, and realised the woman was giving her a chance to ask any questions she might still have. She didn't want to interfere, and she really didn't want to offend, but she had to ask.

"Don't you think your father would wish to know you're alive? He's lost so much already, knowing you were alive might help him. And . . . you do know that you're not to blame, don't you?"

[Huan]

‘M’lady?’ Emlin drew near to Teluyaviel who now sat alone on the bench, a half drunk mug seemingly forgotten clutched in her hands. His gaze followed hers as she looked after the young man and the woman now dancing to the lively tune the Halflings played.

And who would want to leave such a one as she to sit alone? he wondered, his eyes taking in her enchanting face; studying it for a brief moment before she turned her attention to his presence.

‘May I join you?’ He nodded at the cup she held. ‘Would there be more of that? I am quite parched.’ He smiled as his gaze swept round the yard, taking in the lively festivities. ‘It is thirsty work – this making merry in the Shire.’

He sat in silence with her for a while, sipping at the lemonade she gave him. ‘Your brother has been quite forward, quite plain, in his speaking to me. Explaining how you two have come here, how he intends to take you back to Lindon on the morrow, and what boundaries he has set about you – what boundaries he does not wished crossed.’

His slender elven fingers tapped lightly against his mug, a counterpoint to the dance’s melody. ‘And what of you, my fair Lady of the Last Autumn? Have you, too, set a leaguer about your self?’

He held his breath, but briefly, wondering if he had been too bold.

[Undómë]

The light from the little lanterns that hung in the trees about the yard played about his silvered hair. Emlin’s face was cast half in shadow as he spoke to her. She could not read his features; she dared not yet seek his mind, unsure as she was of the intention behind his questions.

‘A leaguer, Master Emlin. What a curious choice of words. But then this night has been a most curious one for speech.’ Her voice trailed off, considering his question more fully. ‘Melian’s leaguer, that is what I think of when I hear that word. That none could pass into her fair country without her knowledge. And so she held back the Shadow from Thingol’s realm.’ She laughed, surprising him, she thought with such a merry assessment of so serious a subject.

And he seemed serious enough, this Elf of Lindon, though he spoke in a light voice. Something hangs on my answering . . . she thought, her grey eyes considering his demeanor. He speaks lightly, to be sure. But perhaps that is his own defense against what reply he might receive.

‘But you are no shadowed creature, or so I would deem you. Though, and let me be plain spoken in this matter, I find your presence disturbing . . . disquieting, more like. It puts me on edge in a way both unsettling yet enticing. And I have no girdle the like of the enchantress of Doriath which I have set about me.’ She was quiet for a while, collecting her thoughts.

‘We have only met but once before. Earlier in the evening. And yet I feel as if you press closely in against me . . . like and unlike my brother. For despite our differences, Tindomion is a comforting presence. But you . . . I have no experience, no words within which to capture you.’ She fell silent again, then touched his wrist lightly with her fingers.

Speak to me, Emlin . . . mind to mind, will you not? That I might hear your questions, your words, without the subtleties and defenses with which your lips might cloak them . . .

[Farael]

Losse was as good a dancer as she had said and Farael was not really a good match for her skills. He did not intend to dance for too long anyway. Just as soon as they jumped into the dancing area, Farael started making his way towards a little drunken hobbit who was dancing really merrily. The good man was barely half Farael's height which suited him well. Taking Losse along with him, he got close enough and in what seemed an accident, got tripped by the hobbit's foot and fell to the floor, pulling Losse down with him. There was a moment of confusion in which he made a minor change as he helped Losse up. Acting really embarassed he muttered something about maybe being a little too tipsy for such a good dancer and started making his way back to Teluyaviel, with his little prize secured in his fist.

It was not without surprise to find her talking to the same elf he had seen before. "Smart man you are, Farael..." he told himself "seeking your petty revenge you let Telu alone and... but no, she is an elf and he is an elf. You should not interfere." He sighed then, having completely forgotten Losse who was not too far behind and walked up to Teluyaviel "Excuse me, M'lady, I would not want to... interrupt you. I just wanted to give you back what belongs to you" with a bow and a smile he offered the hairpin she had given to Losse before. While helping her up, he had changed the expensive, well crafted hairpin fora simpler one he had borrowed from an unsuspecting hobbit. Forcing a smile to his lips, Farael bowed again "Now I shall leave you two alone if you wish, Teluyaviel. It was a mightly pleseant night in your company so far but I should not keep you away from your own people"

[Huan]

Her touch, light as it was, made him gasp. Emlin stifled his reaction, but could not avoid the next when her thoughts gently touched his. He was glad for the interruption as the man came near and spoke with Teluyaviel. It gave him time to order the sudden tangle his thoughts had got into.

Emlin waited as the man gifted her a pretty, jeweled hairpin, watching the interaction between the two. The man had a soldier’s bearing and Emlin wondered that he would withdraw so readily. ‘I am no warrior, yet I would not retreat given a prize as fair as she,’ he thought to himself. He nodded at the man as he made to go.

‘M’lady,’ Emlin said, offering her his hand as he stood. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we walked about and spoke. My thoughts have suddenly gone all topsy-turvy. I’d rather they not frighten you with their incoherency.’

[Tevildo]

Tevildo was doing a nightime perambulation of his regular haunts in Bywater and Hobbiton. He'd already been down to Bag-end and paid his respects to the tiger colored feline who was the boss of the place responsible for keeping Samwise and his brood in line. Then he'd stopped off at the Proudfoots' orchard to check out a nest of mice. They had apparently been told of his approach and had managed to hide inside a hollow log whose opening was too narrow for him to do anything more than reach in with a single paw and blindly grope about with his claws, coming away without a single prize.

He was feeling rather grumpy and wanted to do some mischief. He'd picked up a cold somewhere during the day that made his nose run and his eyes water. He liked playing tricks on the stupid two-leggeds and was searching for a place where he could make a grand entrance. As he padded down the road that led from Hobbiton to Bywater, he noticed that several hobbits were heading towards the Green Dragon, talking excitedly about a party that was happening there. As he rounded the curve in the road, the sound of music and of two-leggeds talking quickly assailed his ear.

How wonderful! Tevildo loved a party. Perhaps he could snatch a bit to eat. Cook made the finest fish fry in all of the Shire. Or, better yet, he could cause a spot of trouble and get everyone to look at him. Slinking in to the party grounds, he could see an assortment of hobbits, elves, and men: some dancing, others eating, many talking with each other. A few hobbits were laughing over some private joke, but many of the other partygoers seemed extremely solemn, engaged in weighty conversations.

First, he sidled up to one of the large tables and caught a lovely odor coming from a steaming bowl. He managed to stick his nose inside a goodly pot of Cook's chicken stew and was thoroughly enjoying himself when a rude person came along and chased him away.

I'll show them!

Tevildo's purr had disappeared, and, in its place was a threatening growl. He eyed the main table where the desserts were sitting. That looked like a good target, but it might be risky. A large Elf with a grim face was standing at one end. Then he saw a smaller table where several female figures stood close by. There was a fine white tablecloth and on top of that a large bowl of punch and a smaller one of nuts. How perfect! All he had to do was get his claws into the tablecloth and the whole thing should come tipping over, punchbowl and all, perhaps splashing skirts that the two-leggeds were wearing.

With a single bound, Tevildo leapt. He landed half on and half off the table, his body hanging over the side and his tail lashing menacingly back and forth. The weight of his body--he was definitely a fat cat--dragged on the cloth. Slowly, the contents of the table inched over to the edge until Tevildo and the cloth went hurtling into the air and the brightly colored punch sprayed in all directions.

[Arry]

‘Don’t need any planning!’ Hanson whispered, his eyes lighting up with mischief. He pointed to where the cat and punchbowl were flying through the air. There was a loud crash and the punch fanned out, splashing a great number of the partygoers. The attention of most of the crowd turned to the soggy fiasco.

‘Come on!’ said Hanson, pulling on Wren’s hand. Tim and Woody followed after.

The table on which the cakes sat had a lovely tablecloth that hung over the sides and ends; making it, for all practical purposes much like a secret cave beneath. The four children sneaked along the side farthest from the party area. One by one, each ducked beneath the table. The light from the candle lanterns in the trees threw a soft glow through the white cloth.

‘Now here’s what we do,’ explained Hanson, who had done this once before at a gathering held up by the party tree. One would stand by the table, keeping watch. One would spy out an easy to grab cake, and pass it down to the two beneath the table, along with some spoons.

He looked to where the mess around the punch bowl was being sorted out. Surely no one would notice if they borrowed a small pitcher of milk, too, to pass round. ‘Woody . . . you and Wren go fetch some milk for us first. Then we’ll bring the cake under when you’ve got back.’ He looked at Tim with a grin on his face. ‘Me and Tim’ll spy out the best cake while you’re gone.’

[Undómë]

She smiled up at Emlin and took his hand. ‘My wrap, if you don’t mind. I’ve left it on the verandah railing. Would you mind terribly fetching it for me? I really don’t want to run into my brother at the moment.’

Teluyaviel watched as Emlin wove his way through the crowd. She was glad for these moments to herself. Like him, she found herself perplexed, her thoughts . . . not exactly confused, just pushed into new channels.

What exactly did he mean to say to her? They had only met this evening. And that by chance, not design.

She picked one of the small flowers from the vase on the table and twirled it about in her fingers, the rhythmic motion focusing the direction of her thoughts. There was something so . . . she could not think of the exact word.

‘Meldo . . .’ she whispered to herself . . . ‘dear friend . . .’ She smiled, thinking of Farael.

‘Melda,’ she said aloud, trying another word on her tongue. A random breeze made her shiver a little. Telu’s brow furrowed as she thought on it. ‘Melda . . .’

[Nurumaiel]

The hobbit looked as though perhaps he had tried to keep tidy on the road, for he certainly wasn't as dirty-looking as he might have been. And, indeed, the expectant light in his eyes seemed to signify that he had a good reason to look his best. But Posco Brandybuck was often referred to by those in his hometown as the 'muddy hobbit.' He had a wonderful genius for attracting dirt, and nobody had been able to break him of his grimy habits, not even himself, for in truth it was not that he did something to make himself dirty. It simply happened.

The lights of the Green Dragon warmed Posco's heart greatly, for he had fond memories of the place. No, memories not merely fond, but beautiful. What bright, bonny eyes she had, and her lovely chestnut hair. Dear, sweet little Lily... he had not seen her since he had escorted her back to her home, despite their engagement. And his shyness, sometimes so deep that it was absurd, forbade him to go call on her at her home, and ride off with her as his bride. And so he made his way to the Dragon, hoping that she would be there. Perhaps she would be. And even if she wasn't... perhaps he could gather enough courage to go to her.

"Good grief, we're terribly lucky. I have such bad memories if this Inn. First we arrive in the pouring rain, soaked and miserable, and nearly dead with exhaustion. And now we arrive in the midst of a party! I prefer the rain."

Posco did not even turn to the gruff voice that had uttered such cheerful words, but gazed with some consternation at what did indeed seem to be a party. He hesitated for a moment, for he was not very fond of parties either. All the people... But, then again...

"If it's a choice between Aunt Malva and a party, I choose the party, Marcho," said Posco. "I don't want to go stay with Aunt Malva. Besides, I think Lily would like a party."

"Yes, yes, Lily would like a party," said Marcho. "I can't understand how you can go traipsing all over the Shire, and risk your sanity by rushing into a crowd of people when you know very well you're afraid of them, just because of a hobbit lass called Lily."

Posco made no reply, but strode with great determination along the road. Yet as the lights grew nearer, and the sound of voices and merry laughter drifted to their ears, Posco's steps began to falter, and his face grew worried. Marcho had been watching him keenly, and took advantage of the moment.

"It isn't too late to turn back, Posco," he said. "I said from the beginning that it would be more sensible to go to her house, anyway, if you really must go see her at all."

"I couldn't do that," said Posco.

"And whyever not?"

"Well... well... well... well, you see, it's much too dangerous. Bree isn't safe place. There are too many Big Folk there."

"We learned last time we came here that there are no lack of them at the Dragon. Posco, you're simply too shy to visit her."

"Why should I be shy around Lily?"

"Very well, then, you've changed your mind and you're only making this trip to satisfy your conscience. You'll say afterwards that you tried to find her, and you couldn't."

Posco drew himself up to his full hobbit height. "That," he said, "is utterly absurd." And then he strode firmly to the Inn.

[Huan]

‘Now where have you been, my dear Emlin?’ Rowan caught up to the Elf as he was walking away from the verandah. ‘An interesting shawl you’ve got there. On your arm.’ She plucked it from him and unfurled it, clutching it about her shoulders. She twirled, letting the ends fly out about her.

‘You are in a most excellent mood, Rowan.’ Emlin stood hands on hips watching her. His eyes slid to where the band were gathered on the stage. ‘Ah! Master Gil, is it?’ He raised his brows at her, nodding toward where Gil stood, about to begin a song. The Hobbit glanced often toward where Rowan stood, his eyes lingering on her. ‘And are you leading him along, little mistress? He seems quite besotted. Where do your affections lie?’

He took back the shawl, folding it neatly over his arm. ‘Take care, Rowan. It is strange, this fair night. You may find yourself reeled in by your own nets.’ Emlin left her standing there, a puzzled look on her face.

----------

She was still sitting on the bench where he’d left her. Emlin stopped in the shadows of the little copse of trees near the edge of the party area. He could barely catch his breath as he looked at her. And why was this so, he wondered? It was not a thing he had looked for.

He had, in fact, considered leaving at the end of this year; once he and his companions had returned to Lindon. Let them continue on their way, playing and singing as they went along. He would scarce be missed with his small talent in playing the flute, his singing. His intention was to take one of the ships that still left from the Havens and sail Westward.

Now those plans seemed all confounded. And he cared not.

Emlin came upon her quietly. She twirled a small fragrant flower in her fingers. And he caught the word she’d murmured quietly, to herself. He plucked the blossom gently from her grip, his own fingers securing it amidst the dark strands of her hair. He wrapped her shawl about her, tying the ends loosely at the front so that it would not slip from her shoulders.

‘Shall we walk?’ he asked, offering his hand to her. Melda . . .?

[Lhunardawen]

"Don't you think your father would wish to know you're alive? He's lost so much already, knowing you were alive might help him. And . . . you do know that you're not to blame, don't you?"

A sad smile crossed Tilionwen's lips as she heard the hobbit's words. Now that she had somehow regained her sanity, all memories of her father came rushing back to her mind...and she felt how terribly he missed him. If only coming back to him was that easy...

"Before now, I've always blamed myself for what happened. I thought I should have stayed awake. I should have been the one protecting her, instead of the other way around. Perhaps that's why it was so easy for the moon to enslave me. But things have changed. I don't know how, but I'm sure they have." The wind blew around a strand of her long dark hair, and she tucked it behind her ear. "I'm just...I'm just scared. I don't know how my father will receive me. He could blame me for everything, and it would kill me if he ever refuses to forgive me.

"But I guess it's a risk I will have to take. He deserves to know what happened. And he deserves to know, no matter how it would hurt him, that my sister is already dead. That I'm the only one he has left." And once again, she smiled gratefully at the hobbit. No words could have done the job better.

Suddenly Tilionwen laughed, and a touch of red flushed on her cheeks. "Why, I seem to be forgetting my manners! I have never asked your name. And while you're at it, I guess it's your turn to tell me your tales. Anything to cheer me up; I never want to go back to that miserable life again." With that she grinned mirthfully, and eagerly turned towards the hobbit. The cares that had marred her face for so long vanished and a youthful glow remained in their place.

[Arry]

'Let's do the one we've just recently practiced.' Gil's instructions brought smiles to the faces of his band members.

'Ah, yes,' said Tomlin, his smile becoming a big grin. He drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle, listening for the right series of sounds. 'And you'll of course sing it . . .yes?'

Gil stepped up to the front of the stage and spoke in a loud voice. 'Here's a song for all you lads as have been struck down by beauty. And still revel in it nonetheless.


Gentlemen it is me duty
To inform you of one beauty
Though I'd ask of you a favour
Not to seek her for a while
Though I own she is a creature
Of character and feature
No words can paint the picture
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

On the evening that I mentioned
I passed with light intention
Through a part of our dear country
Known for beauty and for style
In the place of noble thinkers
Of scholars and great drinkers
But above them all for splendour
Shone the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

So my lads I needs must leave you
My intentions no' to grieve you
Nor indeed would I deceive you
Oh I'll see you in a while
I must find some way to gain her
To court her and attain her
I fear my heart's in danger
From the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty

Of the Queen of all Argyll . . .

[JennyHallu]

As Farael walked back to the table with her hairpin, Losse stalked behind him, furious at the self-satisfied way he walked. He probably thought that was very clever and smooth, pushing me over and pulling my hair, she fumed silently, glaring back at anyone who glanced her way and caressing the handle of the blade she kept in her sleeve. She'd almost flipped it out on the dance-floor in her anger, only the milling feet of the other dancers trying to get out of the way of her fall reminding her just how bad an idea that would be.

Farael handed her hairpin to the Elven lady, who was now talking to another elf, with what Losse was sure he thought was a courtly bow. Too many people...she satisfied herself with rudely and bitterly critiquing his form to herself.

The man left soon afterward, and Losse made her apologies quickly to the Elven lady, who did not seem to even notice she was there, nor even the hairpin she had set back down on the table, so engrossed was she in her companion and in the flower she twirled in her fingers, muttering to herself in Elvish. Losse palmed the hairpin, and followed quickly after Farael, apologizing angrily to those she elbowed in her haste. The band started a new set and Losse's steps became more graceful as she unconsciously walked in a near dance with the infectious music, but it didn't erase the stormy cloud brewing in her sea-gray eyes. A horrible mess involving a cat and a punch bowl had gathered quite a crowd between the guest tables at the edge of the courtyard and the inn, and it was there that she was able to catch up with Farael, gripping his elbow and spinning him around with more strength than her slim frame appeared to have.

"Can I speak with you?" she hissed angrily, indicating that they should go indoors. "Alone? I would let you explain your rudeness on the dance floor, which is more than I ought to do."

[Farael]

Dark thoughts clowded Farael's mind. He had become too attached to the elf, even though he knew nothing more than a friendship could have ever taken place. She was probably thirty years his elder, not to mention the 'friendly' brother she had. If her parents were like that, family dinners must have been a riot! He couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

The table where the ales waited (and called) for him was near, when someone gripped his elbow and spun him as if he were a rag-doll. It was a great surprise not to find a seven feet man but rather the lithe and fit Losse. He looked into her angry eyes, not even paying attention to her words and what had been a chuckle turned into laughter. This sudden bout of merriment healed the sad mood that hung over Farael, which prompted even more laughs.

Although his laughter was heart-felt and out of sheer happyness, it did little to calm the friendly thief. As soon as Farael managed to catch his breath, he bowed deeply to Losse

"Miss, I must say I understimated you," he said and tossed her a small bag containing a few coins "I believe this belongs to you. I thought it was a smart move to distract you with the hairpin deal while I took your money. A thief deserves a thief they say, and I felt it was just fair you had an example of how it felt. You must be really skilled, I was thinking I had you fooled but it was not the case."

A wink, another bow and a fit of laughter later, Farael offered Losse his hand. "I hope you can forgive me, I was outraged at what you attempted on Teluyaviel. But now I see she can look after herself and I would not want you as an enemy. How about we call a truce and maybe talk for a little while?"

[JennyHallu]

Angrily Losse snatched back her purse, expertly weighing it in her hand before tying it back to her belt with a complex knot, completely quickly with long, deft fingers. If she was surprised, not a trace of it showed on her still-stormy face.

"I don't know who you think you are, master Farael, but I have done nothing to deserve this treatment from you," she snapped, rattled by his near-hysterical laughter. "I do not find it amusing."

Then she softened, if only a little. "I suppose, if you promise not to pull my hair again, I will allow you to buy me a drink in recompense. And...I must confess my bafflement. I expected you to have cut the purse-strings, but you left them whole. Where, when, and how did you learn a Gondorian thief-knot? Just building enough of a reputation to be noticed by the professionals is hard enough, much less be taught the knot." She smiled to herself, remembering the night when she'd been accepted into that shadowy organisation. She knew this Farael wasn't a member, or, seeing the knot, he'd have let the purse be, but where had he learned it? A sailor perhaps?

[Nogrod]

Rían brought two pints from the desk, and came back to the table where Grimhorn had set himself down. He sent the other pint gliding over the table, and Grimhorn catched it comfortably. Grimhhorn grinned again, that very weird smile he had. Then he nodded, as like an approval of sorts. Reddie relaxed a bit and leaned to his chair’s back, testing different lines at the back of his mouth, about how to start a conversation.

But obviously there was not going to be any conversation for a while, for the beer really seemed to have come to a need for this giant. He wasn’t sure, whether this tower of a man regarded him anything more than the smoky air around them. Thinking about which reminded him of his pipe. He started to fill his pipe with The Old Boff’s, he always tried to have with him. Making this familiar routine kind of settled him a bit, his hands didn’t even shake any more. Rían pressed the pipe for a couple of times to make sure the bed was well laid and then lit it carefully. He took a couple of puffs, and then inhaled the smoke, making a couple of small rings from the outpouring smoke. Grimhorn seemed to delve in his own thoughts, so Rían also closed his eyes and kind of went into himself.

What a lovely sight! Two beornings, both sitting against each other at a table, in an inn full of noise and partying people. Just sitting there, both in their own worlds. They had kind of created a bubble of their own around that table. But compared to the similar bubble that lovers do manage to create almost anywhere, this bubble was not so much theirs’, as they both were in it separately.

There was something unsettling in that grin, Rían thought to himself. Just one of those grins, combined with the stature of this guy, could have scared the Morgoth out of anyone. But being a beorning himself, or at least a half-beorning raised in a beorning community, Reddie should have managed to be quite familiar with it. But still there was something hounting in it, as though it would have been familiarity of a more concrete sort, in a more particular way. And he had never even met this man! No, it couldn’t be anything like that.

Suddenly Rían had a thought that made cold chills go all around his body. His hands started to shake again, not in any clearly noticeable fashion, but he did sense it himself. Grimhorn as well seemed to have come back from his well earned rest with the beer, and had started looking at Reddie somewhat intensely. Then Rían just felt, that he would have to ask this, no matter, what the consequences would be.

“So, did you really say, you are the son of Grimgor? The son of “Grimgor Bearhand”, Grimgor “the Owl’s eye”, “the one that runs at dusk”?”. The band had started playing again, and Rían would have given all that he had, for a negative answer.

[Dunwen]

Widow Rosebank woke up suddenly, disoriented. Sounds of chatter, laughter and music drifted into her darkened room upstairs in the Green Dragon through the window she’d left slightly ajar. She must have dozed off and slept well past the start of the party tonight! Groggily, she sat up on the bed and lit the candle on the table by her bed. After a few more moments of collecting her thoughts, she stood up and stretched. Then, going to the window, she peeked out and got a partial view of the crowd below, dancing and talking. Despite her alarm at the reports of a live Orc in the vicinity of the Dragon, the Widow’s foot starting tapping along to the merry tune being played below. What finally decided her was the faint odor of the feast laid out for the inn’s guests. She guessed if she wanted to eat dinner tonight, she’d better gather her courage and join the party.

Closing and firmly latching the window (what had she been thinking to leave it open?!), Widow Rosebank pulled the curtains closed and washed up. She had thought to bring one party dress with her, impractical as it had seemed at the time, and she pulled it on happily. One of the best things about owning a dry goods business was first call on the prettiest cloth and notions that came in, and she was well-pleased with her appearance when she finished. Her long-sleeved dress was a plain shade of gray, but of such a soft, rich velvet that she felt almost like a grand lady wearing it. She had embellished it herself at the cuffs with a thick pattern of glass beads made to glitter like silver. They wound about her wrists and up to her elbows in a pattern of vines and flowers. She had sewn a matching beaded pattern around the V-shaped neckline of her dress and around the hem of the full skirt. She decided, after some thought, to leave her hair down. It wouldn’t have been quite proper for a respectable shopkeeper in Bree, but she wasn’t known in Bywater. Besides, the gray velvet somehow brought out copper lights in her brown hair.

Examining her appearance in the small mirror over the washstand, the Widow nodded firmly. “Not bad for a woman your age,” she said to her reflection. Then, checking the latch on the window and locking her door behind her, (she hadn’t forgotten that Orc), she went downstairs.

The common room was nearly deserted as she went through. She stepped out the door into a flood of light and sound. Before her a crowd of Hobbits, Men and Elves whirled in a dance to the tune played by a trio of musicians on the verandah off to one side. Across the green lawn, tables were still laden with plenty of food and several casks dispensing frothy ales. The night was cooling enough to make her thankful for her long-sleeved dress, but not so much as to make her want her cloak.

Heeding her rumbling stomach, the Widow skirted the dancing couples and made her way to the tables. Filling a plate and getting a tankard of what looked to be a fine brown ale, she found a seat at one of the tables and sat down to enjoy her dinner. She’d looked around for one of her new acquaintances, but didn’t see anyone she knew. However, if she sat long enough, someone would likely come up and talk to her. Hopefully she’d have time to eat a bit first. She started on her roast chicken, all the while tapping her foot in time to the music. Pity there wasn’t a fellow her own age to dance with, she thought. Still, it was fun to watch the crowd, especially the young folks. There was a fair amount of flirtation going on between several couples. The widow smiled to herself as she watched a hobbit lad join a pretty young woman near the ale casks. They reminded her of her own courtship so many years ago.

[Dimturiel]

Aniriel was siting at her table in front of a mug of ale. She felt better. Actually, better was not quite the word for it. There was a strange sense of euphoria inside her and she felt the need to do reckless things. Yet it was not so much because of the ale as because of the cheerfulness that surrounded her. She was so overwhelmed by it, that she had to restrain herself from shouting and dancing. Instead she got up, holding the mug in her hand, and said aloud:

"Kind lords and ladies! I have heard many travellers speak of this fair land. And they praised ever this inn and the courteous people that dwell here. And I must confess that I thought they were exagerating, as travellers much too often do to gain attention. But now, when I see with my own eyes the marvels of this place, I realise that none of those I have heard did you any justice!"

She sat down, amazed of her own daring.

"Now they will think that you are either drunk, either mad," a voice inside her head said. "And serves you right, Aniriel, for making such a fool of yourself."

Feeling her cheeks burning, Aniriel took another gulp, not daring yet to look at anybody.

[Folwren]

Tim could hardy believe the position that he found himself in now. Before he could say anything, Wren and Woody had scurried out from beneath the table cloth, and he was left alone, kneeling on the dry, springy grass beneath the cakes and other desserts. He looked around him, bent his head to look below the cloth, and then straightened again and set his eyes on Hanson.

“Come on, then,” he said, nodding towards the hanging cloth. “We’d better find the properest cake to grab while no one’s around.” Hanson nodded, his face still widened by a huge smile full of fun. He and Tim scrambled out quickly, though carefully, from beneath the table, and stood up. “Come on. . .come on,” he said. “We don’t want to be seen hanging around here before we actually have to steel it. Let’s check it from a little ways away.”

Without turning his head, he walked several paces off and put a few people between him and the table of desserts. Hanson followed at his side. They turned together and stood still, eyeing the possible booty and considering carefully which would be the best.

There were about five cakes, all not very large, five pies, and several plates of an assortment of cookies. Tim figured there was likely more food in the kitchen to back these up, in case the cakes and pies were eaten before the night was quite out.

After looking over all of them, Tim spotted a likely cake, one with creamy yellow icing surrounding the white, flaky cake. One or two pieces had been cut out of it, but nothing that they would miss too much. He suggested it to Hanson, and the hobbit child nodded, his eyes sparkling as they settled on the cake and his tongue slowly licked his lower lips.

“Well, we’d better go back,” Tim said. “Keep a sharp eye out that we’re not seen. There’s Woody and Wren now. . .their mission happily accomplished.”

[Thinlómien]

Grimhorn sat comfortably in his chair, drinking his beer. His thoughts had wandered to distant places and people. He had nearly forgotten about Rían sitting opposite him until the lad spoke: “So, did you really say, you are the son of Grimgor? The son of “Grimgor Bearhand”, Grimgor “the Owl’s eye”, “the one that runs at dusk”?”

Grimhorn's eyes narrowed slightly, but before he could answer he was distracted by the band that had just started playing. Rían was not looking at him; he watched the band. Then the young man turned and faced Grimhorn's narrowed gaze. For the older man's satisfaction, Rían looked a bit frightened. Still, the lad seemed to be waiting for the answer.

"Do you question my word?" Grimhorn asked the other beorning with a low voice. Rían looked puzzled. Grimhorn cleared his throat. Maybe this was about a different thing. "How many Grimgors you know? How many Grimgors there are?" he asked. After a small pause, he added: "I doubt you have heard of more than one. It's not so usual name."

By himself, he wondered how much did the lad know.

[Enedhilion]

The door swung open. A dark figure made his way into the Inn. As he felt the beaming eyes of curious spectators, he silently sat down at a table, in a dark corner.

Beriothien was his name. He believes he is the age of thirty four, he does not remember. Not important... The figure was tall, built, with a mysterious presence... almost an aura, if you will. He carried a long blade, he believes it dates only back to the Third Age, forged by men in West Emnet, outside of the glorious city of Edoras.

A stranger strides up to his table, "What will't be, man of the shadow?"
"Surprise me," Beriothien says. "I've never seen you in these parts. What is your business here, figure?" the waiter replies. "Just passin' through, no worries."

As the man leaves, Beriothien's mind wanders again. He is hit with an old memory, a terrible one. He thinks to himself...
I cannot believe I am still here. It was a slaughter, their attacks never ceased...never ceased...

Beriothien, a troubled man, has fought with many men, and watched his friends die at his feet. War is a terrible thing, but it cannot be avoided.

He comes back to reality. Must rest...must drink...big day coming up...better be ready...

We shall see what's in store for the man of the shadow.

[Caunwaithon]

It is nightime outside, and a single rider trots along a steady path, trees backing him on all sides. The man is a Rohirrim, but he is not lost in these parts, he has not wandered to the Shire by accident. The young man wears a leather and steel armor, with chain mail underneath. On his head sits a black horsehair crest, the symbol of an Outrider of Rohan. In his right hand, held up high, is a six foot ashen spear, black with a shining wrought iron steel tip.

The single rider comes to the Green Dragon inn. He dismounts amidts crowds of people and several exchange glances at the newcomer. There must be a party outside, for that matter. He does not bother to tie up his starkly black horse, but instead, he pats it on the neck, whispering ridddemarken into it's ear.

"Secht le beltom, no flenta."

The young man smiles, and the horse lies down, nieghing and brushing up against the leg of his master.



The door of the tavern booms loudly open, hitting the wall and rebounding. A large man , made even larger by the leather and steel armor he is wearing, fills the room with a hearty laughter, and sets an ashen spear down on the opposite side of the door. I am this man, and this is my story. There is no need to carry a weapon in here, I have nothing to fear from this place. I am from good times, of hearty drinks and glorious battle. I remove my steel helm, coarse horsehair crest scratching the back of my neck, and revealing my long, straight dirty blond hair that has been tucked into my helm. Making my way through the inn, I greet all those who come across my path, leaving a wake of smiles and laughter. But there seems to be few people here, they must all be outside. No matter. I will get an ale, and see what happens. I hit my knee against something, and that something yelps, in a deep, guttural voice. I have nearly tripped over an old acquaintince, a dwarve of the Fundin clan. He seems to be in a foul mood....I decide to cheer up the firey red-haired dwarve.

"Ah, my old friend Harod! What troubles you in these glad times? The lord of shadow is no more!"

The dwarve looks at the floor, then look back up into my eyes.

"Aye, horse lord, the evil sauron may be gone, but his minions still live on. Evil still infests all lands, and we dwarves have still not reclaimed Moria...."

I clap him on the shoulder, smiling, showing rows of white teeth.

"My friend, if there was no evil, we would have no pay! And without pay, how would we pay for our ale?"

The dwarve's gaze darts up, and booming laughter comes forth from his beard.

"Aye laddy, that you are correct!"

I turn from my friend, looking at the bar. I see no Bartender, so I just loudly proclaim,

"Barkeep, an ale for I and one for my dwarven companion! He is thirsty and travel weary!"

A beautiful woman comes up from above the bar surface, hands on her hips. A lock of golden hair is amiss from the rest going across her forehead and over one eye. The rest is brought back in a ponytail. Her skin is only very lightly tanned, with a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her cheeks. But her eyes....large emeralds, sparkling in radiance and contrasting with her earth-toned dress. This is a maiden of Rohan, the land of my birth. What is she doing all the way in the shire? I have an excuse, I am an outrider of Rohan, but....

The woman brings me back from my daydream.

"Excuse me? Sir...."

I smile nervously, reminding my self all too wearily of my young age. I am barely 19 years of age, this woman cannot be interested in such a young one. But she seems to be the same age...

"I was simply struck by your beauty, my lady..."

She laughs, and rolls her eyes.

"You are the fourth one to say that today, and I know I don't look "beautiful" right now. I've been working for nearly a fortnight. So don't think you can trick me, even if you are an Outrider."

She must have some knowledge of us...she could tell by my black horsehair crest. This is indeed a woman of rohan. I smile at the woman, and she turns to get the ale.

"A'right, Horsemaster. Two 'ales comin' up."

I turn back to my dwarven friend still smiling, and remove my hand from his shoulder, turning to grasp the two ales being handed to me. In the corner of me eye, in the darkest shadow of the room, I see a Ranger, who seems to suck the very light out from around him....

Who is this shadow man?

My eyes fixed upon the ranger, I grasp the two stiens and ask the barkeep of the man, while stroking the short dirty blond beard that begins at my ears, and ends at the bottom of my chin, going over my lip.

"My lady, who is that man?"

The woman's congenial look vanishes from her face, the diamond spark goes out of her eyes, and she speaks in a hushed tone.

"That'll be one of them rangers....dangerous folk if you ask me. That one just walked in without sayin'a word, and sat right down."

I hand Harod's stien to him, which he immediatley starts gulping, and speak again, eyes still fixed on the man.

"One more ale for a friend I have not met yet."

The woman smiles, and winks at me. Maybe it was just sarcasm in her voice before....

I turn back and look at the ranger, and other thoughts vanish from my mind. That man is either a godsend, or pure evil.

"Here you go, young Outrider."

She tops off a mug and places it in my hand, caressingly, I note.

I need to stop thinking of her. I have a job to do. This man might have information.

I begin to walk toward the Ranger's table. His eyes are fixed on.....

Nothing.

I have only seen that look in the eyes of men who have seen the horrors of battle, and seen their comrades go down. I come upon the man, and nudge him with a stien, grinning.

"Hello there, freind. Got room for one more?"

[Enedhilion]

My train of thought is rudely interrupted by an obnoxious and loud fool.
"Hello there, dark one. How about a pint o' ale?"

"What is your purpose of pestering me with your nettlesome speech?" I ask abruptly.

"Sorry, I meant no harm. I just saw a lonely fellow, sittin 'ere by himself, and wanted to bring a pint o' ale for your troubles, an' a ear to hear any information you have. You are, after all, a ranger, and I am an outrider. I am Canwaithon, of the Riddimarck."

...He knows nothing of me, only the clothes on my back and the darkness beyond my cloak. Who is he to barge in on my time to myself and bother me with his disdainful statement?

"I have no information, wander'r. And I do not find myself obliging to your request."

[Caunwaithon]

I will have information out of this man, however foul-tempered he is. I will not use force to extract it, though. I can see now that this man is older than I, and by quite a few years, at that. He looks nearly thirty, and then some. But more than that....

He is troubled. He knows of a great battle that happened, and it is more than likely that he fled, or was the only one left alive.

I set down the stien in front of myself, and slide it over to the man.

"C'mon! Have an ale for your troubles, and tell me a spell. There isn't a thing as a ranger who doesn't know what's happening."

I smile again, relaxing back in the booth. I slump down in it, and set my helm off to the side,taking a draught of the cool beer. It' been quite a while since I drank anything but water, or ate anything but jerky. I can hear the sounds of hobbits laughing outside, intermixed with your every-now and then human, and the sound of flutes, and other music.

It is good to relax every once and awhile....

[Farael]

"Gondorian thief-knot? Enhmer you rascal!!" Farael shook his head, grinning "I learned it during my time as an archer for the Army of Gondor. A friend of mine taught it to me. Thief-knot you say? well, that explains an awful lot" He chuckled, still aware of how Losse may have been feeling.

As he tried to calm down, two men walked by him. One was cloaked in shadows and Farael did not think of him twice. The second wore an armor he had seen years before and carried a spear. A spear in the shire. The thought was so odd Farael could not help but to laugh yet again. By the time the fit of laughter passed, he realized he had been holding on to Losse not to fall flat on the ground. It was a grotesque situation, a big man like himself laughing like a child and holding on to a woman for support. He looked into her eyes and could not stop the laughs yet another time.

It was a few minutes this time before Farael could catch his breath. "I... I do apologise Miss Losse, forgetting the thievery you have been very nice to talk to. Of course, you call yourself a thief and so I shall not trust you easily. I sure wish you were not, a fair lady from Gondor who may or may not have been born in a noble family who is not afraid to travel to a far-off land is unique indeed." He tried smiling his most charming smile and fighting back the chuckles that had not yet abandoned him. It would not do to laugh this time.

[Nogrod]

So it was a positive answer. This man in front of him really was the son of the “One that runs at dusk”. The son of the “Owl’s eye”... If I just could improve a bit and hold my mouth also when relaxed and comfortable after a beer or two!

Rían felt like he had quite consciously pushed his head straight into a beehive – if there ever was such a large one to accomodate his head. He kind of smiled inwardly to his lousy metaphor. Maybe he was just poking a bear that was just coming off from its’ hibernation... What a fool he was! As long as he could remember, he had just slipped this once, wanting to make sure he could be in peace, just for this night, to assure some relaxation after all those days, weeks, and months of being alert, tense and on guard all the time. And on this night, of all creatures on Middle Earth, he had literally crashed into the son of “Grimgor Bearhand”, and on the top of it all, bought him a beer and insisted on his company, then revealed his knowledge of him & his own identity! Stupid, stupid, stupid!!! A way out of this? None to be seen at the moment. I would have to come up with something, and quickly! I could so well had just made my apologies and go out to have my pipeful! Or why couldn’t I just have had some nice small-talk about the Beorning life-style and the weirdness of other cultures, thrown some jokes familiar to both of us, drank my pint and excused myself with all the best wishes to a fellow-Beorning? Then I could have rejoined Falar, Naria & others. They seemed nice folk. At least they didn’t seem to him like people in the midst of trouble, where Rían now found himself in.

Rían had thrown himself into a troll’s cave, and could not come up with a way out. The narrow stare of Grimhorn didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. It was, like this guy was just pondering about the wealth of his knowledge. There should be only the right words now. He should get over this one, for he surely knew, what was it like to meet his father. This giant propably didn’t expect this knowledge with him, yet. He would have to hold that back as long as possible.

“Well, I just thought the same, you kind of said... There sure aren’t many Grimgors around. But how can I add together the name of Grimgor and the famous name of the “Owl’s eye”? That you must have asked yourself. Well...” Immediately Rían realized, that he was as a fly in a spider’s web, by moving boldly to reach out, he had just entangled himself even tighter in to the net!

Grimhorn seemed concentrated on him. He had raised his eyebrows, clearly waiting for Rían to continue. But suddenly, there glimmered a dim light of hope! Maybe this cavetroll had just forgot Rían’s introductioning of himself! Maybe Grimhorn didn’t quite know, who he was? This was desperate, he knew that, but nothing else came to his mind at the moment.

“... Well. My father, you propably won’t know him, was a kind of a seer”. Rían tried now to avoid the name “hermit”, by which his father had been known all over the Beorningland. “He once told me to revere the “One that runs at dusk”, and at a same time Grimgor Bearhand, for they are the very same man. Now that is what my father told me. The name of Grimgor hasn’t meant much to me over the years, but the stories of the “Owl’s eye” I surely have heard, many times. And yes, I have now made the connection. But I can swear to you, with a beorning’s word, that I’ll never mention this to anyone. Rest assured, you can count on my word.”

Rían took a glance to check, that no-one was listening to his speech. Grimhorn noted his care. For a moment they were both silent. Grimhorn stared at him, clearly in his thoughts, Rían was just wondering, what this grin meant this time. He tried to lighten the situation – and possibly turn this giant’s mind to somewhere else.

“Care to taste this one?”, he asked, “It’s Old Boff’s. Very good stuff indeed”. With these words, he offered his pipe towards Grimhorn.

[Enedhilion]

I feel no cheer, even though it is right here next to me...in ALL of it gloriousness...

"I have no time to chat, Outrider. They are after me. That is all I can speak for now.", I reply.

"Tis' alright. All I want to know is what is your identity and who pursues you?", the Rohirrim asks.

"I am Beriothien, of Belfalas. That is all you need to know. And I havn't a clue. A horde of minions is on my tail. I shall confront them at dawn. I know not of their location, only of their direction. They come from the northeast, travelled around the tip of Eryn Lasgalen. No time to chat...no time to chat..."

A figure of small stature and a steady walk,made his way over the slight hillside and through the trees.A rugged and worn down cloak wraped the dwarves shoulders.The grunting and slight mumbling he emmited could be heard a good distance.In his right hand,griped tightly and being used as a walking stick,was an axe,a common weapon of his kin.Underneath the cloak,a leather vest worn over a simple black tunic.Chainmail leggings and straped leather boots covered his legs.All that rested on the dwarves head was the hood of the cloak,though it did little to hide his facial features.The long brown beard could be seen from nearly every angle,not that Janthor wanted to hide it anyway.

Finaly arriving at his destination,Janthor put the hood of his cloak down and looked around.This was a lively place for sure.Not like the parties back home,which usualy involved brawling,and rivers of ale.Turning his attention back to the door,Janthor barged into the room.The smells of pork and ale,mixed with the warmth of the fire seemed to blast the dwarf.

Janthor inhaled deeply and sighed with a slight laugh.It had been a long journey and he was long over due for a good drink.Relizing he hadnt closed the door he turned,shuting it swiftly.As he made his way to the bar he had to push his way through several times.Though this was hobbit territory,many stoped here as they went through.He was small but proud and didnt mind showing it either.Others though had to be reminded that other,shorter inhabitants dwelled in Middle Earth.

Arriving at the bar,he noticed his axe was still in hand.Standing it up against the bar,he pulled a chair over and climbed atop it.He barely stood at arms length on the chair.

"Could a dwarf get a drink around here?" Janthor said in his booming voice.A women,who had prieviously been cleaning mugs came over.She greeted him with a warm smile,and didnt seem to mind Janthors brash attitude.

"Right away master dwarf.Ale correct?"

"Aye,lass.Many thanks."

She had been gone only a few seconds befor returning with a full mug of ale.She set the mug down in front of Janthor befor turning to fill another patrons order.Janthor gripped the mug with both hands befor bringing it to his lips and taking a long drink.Upon completing the mans order she returned.

"Might I ask what brings you here? Dont get many dwarves these days."

Janthor removed the cup from his lips and set it on the bar.

"Oh nothing,nothing at all realy.Just getting out of the mountains a bit.To tell you the truth,you wont find many dwarves who want to get out of the mountain.Glorious homeland,no doubt.Even a dwarf wishes to see the outside lands once in awile though."

She gave a warm smile befor opening her mouth to speak.But befor the words could come out,she was summoned by yet another patron.

"If you'll excuse me."Sighing she made her way over to the customer.

He shrugged befor bringing the ale to his lips once again.

[Caunwaithon]

Originally Posted by Enedhilion

I feel no cheer, even though it is right here next to me...in ALL of it gloriousness...

"I have no time to chat, Outrider. They are after me. That is all I can speak for now.", I reply.

"Tis' alright. All I want to know is what is your identity and who pursues you?", the Rohirrim asks.

"I am Beriothien, of Belfalas. That is all you need to know. And I havn't a clue. A horde of minions is on my tail. I shall confront them at dawn. I know not of their location, only of their direction. They come from the northeast, travelled around the tip of Mirkwood. No time to chat...no time to chat..."

I sit up in my in the booth, arms settling on the table, armor creaking lightly, and the chainmail clinking.

"Berethion....of Belfalas. Protector of Belfalas. I Am Caunwaithon, and I am from the very northern borders of my people, Fangorn Forest."

I pause for a while, thinking with my left hand around the mug, right stroking the beard.

"I will not let you fight this foe alone, Ranger of the North. I do not think my companions will either. I wait for Janthor, a dwarve of the Lonely Mountain, and one I have not met yet, Kilon Ith'o. If you wish it, stranger, you have my spear."

I set back down again, and talk in a more friendly tone.

"Well, Ranger, I won't presume, but I think you're like me. You don't like to fight on an empty stomach, aye? Let's get somethin' to eat. I haven't had anything but jerky in quite a while."

Then I look to my left, and see a dwarf chatting with the beautiful bartender.

"If you'll excuse me one moment, ranger, I believe this is Janthor here...."

I get up, grabbing my helm and putting it in the crook of my left elbow, coming upon the dwarf, who has his back turned to me.

"Excuse me, Master Dwarf, but would you happen to be Janthor of the Lonely Mountain?"

Janthor set the mug down ,empty now.A few stares were drawn at the Dwarves drinking speed,but Janthor paid them no mind.

"Excuse me, Master Dwarf, but would you happen to be Janthor of the Lonely Mountain?" He heard a man say.Turning to face him,Janthor still had to look up,even though he was on a chair.

"Aye, that I am lad!" It took him awile but he eventually relized who it was."How are you doing my friend! Its been awile.Well get that blasted helmet off! I could hardly tell you from the other soldiers in here."

A second of slight and awkward silence passed between them.Janthor didnt know why he hadnt offered Caunwaithon a drink.After all dwarves were known for their merry times in the taverns.

"Would you like a drink? I saw you chatting with that ranger over there.Hope it went well.The stories suggest that if it dosnt your in trouble."

[Enedhilion]

Seeing this man's new accomplice, I decide to speak up.

"I am sorry...Spearman. This is my fight, and my fight alone."

I felt a little unnerved, and I began to stand.

"Now if you will excuse me, I need rest."

I am struck with another memory. I begin to feel saddened.

"No matter how many there are...this is my fight. They took something away from me...that I can never have again. I shall return the favor, with their lives."

[Caunwaithon]

I smile at the man, recollecting of our conversation.

"Ha! This man might be a ranger, but I have a Dwarven warrior by my side!"

I pick up the ale put upon the bar, and lift it up.

"For old friendships, and that they shall not die!"

I toss the ale back, washing it down my throat with some difficulty. Well, alot of difficulty. But I do not show it, and I am proud for this.

"Come, Janthor. I will show you the man I wish to help."

I pick up a wooden plate a block of cheese upon it, and a loaf of dark bread, walking once again towards the dark corner. But the man meets me halfway, in a manner of refusal.

"I am sorry...Spearman. This is my fight, and my fight alone."

the man slowly stands up from the table and begins to walk away.

"Now if you will excuse me, I need rest."

he walks out of the tavern, without sound escaping forth from his bootheels.

I nod my head towards Janthor, and smile.

"Well then, nevermind, it seems as if we will need to find our own quest."

I set the wooden plate down, and pull a straight-edged knife from a sheath on my belt, cutting into the cheese and sitting down, biting into the sharp, aromatic white half moon cheese.

"So...how goes the lonely mountain? Does your kingdom do well?"

[Enedhilion]

Suddenly, Beriothien bursts through the doors.

"They have found me! I have no idea how they found me......YOU! OUTRIDER!", I call to the Rohan rider.

He glances over to me. I guess I caught his attention.

"Aid me and I will follow you on your quest!", I call to him again.

"Yes I suppose.Moria is still in goblin hands though.Blasted creatures!One day though we will retake it in Balins honor!"

Janthor looked up as the doors swung open hitting the wall as they did."They have found me! I have no idea how they found me......YOU! OUTRIDER! Aid me and I will follow you on your quest!"

"Calm down lad.Who's found you?"

[Caunwaithon]

I straighten up in my seat, thinking for a moment....

"Beriothen, what are their numbers, and where are they? They outside the borders of the shire, are they not?"

I smile then, speaking in a humorus tone.

"Because if that is the case, we may have a chance, and I might have a plan....."

I begin to cut into the bread once again, fitting another slice into my mouth.

Never ride to battle hungry.

The dwarf looks at me oddly, brow furrowed in confusion.

"I am sorry my friend, I failed to tell you. Beriothen has been pursued by a horde who has gone around Eryn Lasgalen, once known as Mirkwood, now reclaimed by the elves. He says they have something of his...something he wants back. I will go. What of you?"

Janthor grabs his beard befor slapping his knee."Why not.Nothing better to do here.And I havnt sunk my axe into somethings chest in awile."

"Beriothen,of the Rangers.Ye have my axe in this matter." The Dwarf said grabing the weapon eagerly.Leaning on it he let out a laugh.

[Caunwaithon]

I laugh at the dwarf, holding onto my sides. I knew he would say yes, but I didn't think it would be in quite this manner.....

"Beriothen, how far out are these men? Do we have time to plan further?"

I finish off the rest of the cheese, and swig it all down with this fine hobbit ale. Not like the Lagers of my homeland, specifically, the Heffewiesen, but a good beer nonetheless.

I look at the dwarve, surrounded by empty beer. He looks as if a king, sitting upon his golden throne. I immediatley laugh at the image, and he looks at me quizzically.

"Aye, here be the king of the Brew, nanquishing the enemy with his throat! None shall pass!"