The Seventh Star Inn

[Mithadan]

A soldier of Gondor entered the Inn, waving to the barkeep and some few whom he knew at the various and sundry tables. As always, the appearance of a man at arms in the Inn caused some to turn to watch the goings on in curiosity and others to turn away or shrink into the shadows. The soldier ignored the curious stares as well as those who shrank from his gaze and proceeded to the end of the bar where messages were sometimes posted upon the wall. Withdrawing a scroll from his pouch, he unrolled it and tacked it up on the wall. Then, seeing as he was now off duty, he sidled over to the bar and ordered a pint of ale. Behind him, some took the opportunity to hasten away while he was not looking. Others approached the bar in curiosity and examined the newly posted notice. It read:

The Seventh Star and the Lords and Council of Gondor hereby welcome and extend their courtesies, respects and congratulations to AYLWEN DREAMSONG who has been named on the roles posted in the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice her trade in the Realm of Gondor.

[mark12_30]

Mellonin smiled, and rose.

"Where is she? Where is the new bard?" she cried. "Surely she will join us here at the Inn. And if she can truly sing dreams, " Mellonin said, glancing at Raefindan who looked intrigued, "she must sing for us!"

Raefindan nodded, and then looked as if he had second thoughts. "Aylwen Dreamsong. Does her name mean that she sings about dreams-- or that when she sings, you dream? or that after you hear her sing, your dreams change? Or-- well, I have sad dreams enough; I could use some cheerful dreams. Dreams with a happy ending, maybe?"

Mellonin grew somber for a moment; her own dreams had been difficult too. Then she brightened. "Perhaps with the offer of a bottle of wine, she will choose cheerful songs, and we will dream cheerful dreams!"

Raefindan tried to feel optomistic. Mellonin was ready to hear the minstrel, and Raefindan hoped that she was right in her optomism about cheerful dreams.

Only-- where was the minstrel?

[piosenniel]

It had been a long, hot, disgruntling day at the dressmaker’s shop. Were it up to Piosenniel alone she would simply have pointed to a bolt of some acceptable material of an unobtrusive hue; given some vague instructions to the seamstress about not making it too tight or too long. And no, she would not be needing a cloak, slippers dyed, scarves, or any fussy items for the hair.

Or better yet, she would rather have pulled some gown from her wooden chest, shaken it out, and called it ‘good’.

But Gilwen had seen the invitation and mounted a protest. ‘It’s the King’s party, ammë! You have to have a pretty new dress.’ Little Cami nodded her head solemnly, wondering all the while if there would be cakes and other sweets. Eyes sparkling in anticipation, she piped up with a suggestion for a new bag to go with the outfit. ‘A pretty one . . . and big, too,’ she murmured at the end, thinking of the treats that might be brought home in it.

Even Isilmir had his thoughts on the occasion. ‘Father’s gone away. You’ll have to be the one to show up for our family. He’d want you to go and greet the King.’ He looked at his mother with a critical eye. ‘For a mother you still look good.’ Pio raised her brows at this assessment, but he continued on. ‘A pretty new dress would be even better.’ Cami and Gilwen nodded in complete agreement with their brother.

Pio had shaken her head and burst out in laughter at their concerted effort. ‘Alright, then,’ she had said. ‘Promise me there will be no more talk of pretty this and pretty that, and tomorrow we will all go into the city to see about making me suitably acceptable!’

~*~

Now they found themselves at the Seventh Star Inn. The discussions about material, the cajolings about ‘fashion’ and the innumerable measurings were done for the day. The seamstress had promised to have it ready for a fitting in a few day’s time, further promising that it would be the final fitting. The Elf had an exasperated look in her eye by the end of this tedious process. The dressmaker wisely chose not to discuss accessories, simply tucking away in the back of her mind what would be appropriate. She would present the entire outfit when Pio returned.

‘Look, ammë!’ Gilwen’s voice broke in on her thoughts as she sipped her cup of wine. Pio turned to see her daughter standing on a chair the three had carried to the wall at the end of the bar. ‘A story-teller . . . a new one has come into the city.’

Little Cami danced at the announcement, twirling around in delight as she looked up at her sister. She fixed her mother with a smile. ‘Oh, I love new stories! We can stay to hear one, can’t we?’ she asked clapping her hands. She looked about expectantly, wondering which one of the people at the Inn’s tables might be the new spinner of tales . . .

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

For the first time, Aylwen stepped into the Seventh Star. She was free to practice her trade in Gondor, and accepted to join the others that were of the distinct honor of being on the list of proper Gondorians. It was a fine and happy day for Aylwen, indeed, for she had spent many, many long months in Rohan. Aylwen knew her heart was still in Rohan, but such an honor as to be admitted pass into Gondor would not be overlooked by the young minstrel.

The young lady watched as people crowded around the message left by the soldier of Gondor. Some walked off, uninterested; others searched to see what face belonged to the name on the message.

"Perhaps with the offer of a bottle of wine, she will choose cheerful songs, and we will dream cheerful dreams!" Aylwen overheard someone say, and the new Gondorian chuckled at the suggestion. Aylwen walked over to the one who had spoken.

"I do not need wine to sing cheerful songs!" Aylwen said as greeting. "If it is music you wish to hear, and music to soothe your soul, you need only ask. Wine is a temporary comfort...a good tune rings forever!"

Aylwen pulled her set of panpipes from her knapsack, and piped a few notes before clearing her throat and singing the first song of dreams that came to her. In her clear alto voice, Aylwen sang for the woman and her companion:

"Rest, rest, sweet dreamers are sleeping,
Soon the dreams will come a-creeping.
Rest, rest, your peace will come soon,
Before the rising sun and setting moon.

Forget the Haven’s bells, forever ringing,
Listen only to the dream spirits singing.
Forget the pain of the day long past,
And I promise, you will find peace at last.

Rest, rest, dream of prosperity,
Crisp and clean in morning clarity.
Rest, rest, and loathe the hour of dawn,
When you must wake to dreams forgone.

Smile in your sleep, sweet little one,
And you will find joy ‘ere all is done.
Think of the times before there was war,
And you will sleep happily, forever more.

Rest, rest, my restless child fair,
Calm in dreaming without despair.
Rest, rest, and I promise you’ll see,
The world of dreams was made for thee."

[mark12_30]

Raefindan and Mellonin exchanged glances, and then Raefindan stepped back to the bar and gave Morien a coin. Morien handed him a bottle, which Raefindan frowned at, and pointed to another. Morien laughed, and Raefindan got the bottle he wanted.

He presented the wine to Aylwen with a deep and rather outlandish bow. Aylwen looked on, slightly startled, but thanked him.

"A sweet song indeed, Lady. Perhaps you'd teach it to my friend?" he said with a gesture towards Mellonin. Mellonin laughed, and quietly applauded. "I'd love to learn it. But if you sing it much more, you'll have to wake me from my dreams!"

Raefindan opened the bottle, and poured Aylwen a glass. "A sweet lullabye, and fitting for one with a name such as yours. Who taught you such mastery of your craft, lady Aylwen? Tell us your tale."

[Rimbaud]

Wheels moved within wheels, and even sickness passes. After some time in the Inn, Rimbaud finally descended to the common room and smiled at those present. He seemed paler and some of the laughter had left his eyes, but the grey tunic and the light blue sash were familiar.

He sat with some of the patrons for a while, talking lightly on the robust condition of the Inn. He spoke highly of the story-tellers of Gondor, who still circled the Inn. Rarely had the Innkeeper seen such healthy prose, he laughed.

He smiled at the newcomer to the List and bade her welcome to the Star. He did not know what she would make of this grey stranger with the tired eyes. Yet he made much of the new carving on the board, and shared a long pint and conversation with Mithadan, who slapped him on the back genially.

Rimbaud’s mind was not on these pleasantries, however. Much as he disliked it, he was again enmeshed in schemes of the City, and he was particularly guilty of using certain friends. There were strands running through the Inn, plans weaving together. He just wished he could see the pattern they wove.

Rising again, he adjusted his sash and winked at the barman. “Well,” he said quietly. “I’m back.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn applauded appreciatively when Aylwen finished her song. How fortunate that she should have come to the Inn at just the right time for meetings and greetings! She had bidden Mellonin and her companions farewell and welcomed the new story-teller. The Loremistress was pleased with double prospects of new tales for the archives of the White City. Now she stepped over to speak with Rimbaud, happy to see her friend on his feet again.

“I see that you have finally deigned to honour us with your presence!” she said lightly, with a hint of a curtsey and an impish smile.

“Indeed,” he replied, “I assume that you were bored without my enlivening influence! Tell me, how did your journey go? Did you collect many new tales for the city archives?”

“Yes, and you shall see and hear of them in time. But tell me first, what is it that causes your eyes to look inwards rather than seeing what is happening around you?” Estelyn queried. “You may be here in body, but your thoughts stray elsewhere.”

Her observation did not surprise Rimbaud; he was accustomed to the fact that she could see what others did not. “Come away from the bustle and the hearing ears here,” he suggested. “Then I can tell you some of what troubles my mind.”

[mark12_30]

Mellonin, Raefindan, Ravion and Aeron had finished packing. Ravion was deep in thought about the immanent departure. Mellonin and Raefindan went to find Morien.

"Well, all equipped and ready?" Morien said.

"Yes, sir, " replied Mellonin. "And please, sir, I wanted to thank you again for the advance. That was very generous of you. Thank you."

He studied her. She could be perceptive, or flighty, she could be thoughtful or absent-minded. "I assume you have spoken with your parents?" he said.

She shook her head. "We will pass by their house on the way out. I planned to stop in then."

"Mellonin, how can you be so foolish? Contact them now."

"Why?"

"How can they do anything to help you if you don't give them any notice?"

Her face fell. "They have so little. I do not want to burden them."

He snorted. "Foolish girl. If your corpse rots in the wilderness, They will have even less. Where do your parents live?"

"In the lowest circle."

"Tell Ravion where it is, and have them all meet you there."

Raefindan waved her out. She snatched up her cloak and pack, the shoulder-bag, and the awkward bundle of clothes and equipment that she was gong to change into; she would have to change in her parent's room. Hurriedly giving Ravion the directions to the room her parents lived in, she hurried to the door.

She turned with a sinking heart and looked back. In such a short time, the Inn had become a comfortable place. Morien in the end had shown her kindness behind his gruff exterior. And there were so many others to whom she wished she had time to say farewell. Her eyes fell on Estelyn, who was now talking to the Inn owner, and she fervently wished her well.

Raefindan waved her out again, and she turned and left the Inn.

[mark12_30]

The mouse emerged cautiously from his hole near the fireplace, and peered around the corner. Nose twitching, he sat up, eyeing the elf-lady with her children. She was enjoying the dreamy music sung by the new bard.

The mouse's nose twitched again, and his ears went forward. Her lively children were fun to watch. And the mouse was happy to see the elf-lady here at the inn.

Happy Birthday, elf-lady.

[Imladris]

Ærosylle was about to reply to Mellonin's question when a newcomer came to the Inn. She seemed to be a minstrel of sorts and sang a song of dreams. Dreams are sweeter than our world when they are pleasant. But what if the dream was bad? Then the dreamer couldn't find peace and would not loathe the hour of dawn. Ærosylle shuddered. The bad dreams had a tendancy to haunt one's memory as well; good dreams fled all too swiftly.

Ærosylle tapped the table with her pen as she saw the various welcome the poet -- singer. Leaning down, she took another piece of deformed paper and smoothed it on the table. Looking closely at the girl, she began to draw her in the midst of a mighty forest. It was a dark forest -- a forest full of dreams. Bright dreams in the form of elves and dark dreams in the guise of goblins.

The orcs crouched in the underbrush, peered around the tree trunks, and some of the smaller ones dangled from the branches. The elves sang in the tree tops, plucked their harps, and some danced around the singer.

Ærosylle dropped her pen, and scrutinized it. She blew on it softly, drying the ink so it wouldn't smudge if a wayward hand happened to touch it. Rising, she crept towards the singer and murmured, "This is for you."

She stepped back quickly and looked for Mellonin. But she had left with the red haired man and some others. Ærosylle saw them stride down the path and waved at them through the window.

[Bêthberry]

The haunting melody of Aywlen Dreamsong's panpipes drifted up the wooden staircase and through the floorboards into the Innkeeper's room. The echoing notes were an eerie reminder of the eyes and ears downstairs, as if even here in Rimbaud's private rooms he could be traced and followed.

Not followed perhaps, but observed in passing. When he and the LoreMistress had left the great hall, their departure together had been noted. They could not escape that, nor, indeed, had they tried.

Yet both were brought up short when they entered a room they had expected to be empty to find a figure in dark brown cloak standing before the fire.

The Loremistress spoke up first, curtly and with authority ringing in her calm tones, "What business have you here?"

The Innkeeper looked at her, his tired eyes for once showing some interest, and raised his hand silently. He recognised the figure that had stood watch over him for many days.

She turned and threw off the hood, smiling at the Loremistress.

"You did not expect me here, old friend, but here I am," she spoke quietly. "And I am most pleased to see you looking well, better than the Innkeeper here."

At that moment, they were interrupted by the arrival of a large falcon who flew through the slightly opened, shuttered window, a small twig in its beak. Wyrd landed on the worn wooden desk, dropping the twig, his head turning with sharp, penetrating glances to the three humans before stopping to stare at the Innkeeper.

[mark12_30]

Outside the Inn doorway three Gondorians lounged against the moonlit wall, all well but plainly groomed and dressed, all boys on the verge of manhood. Typical grey eyes and dark hair framed their laughter, and their jests were no less gleeful for their lack of ribaldry. All three sparkled with camraderie and deep affection; their history as a threesome went back to before they could crawl.

"Should he not be here by now?"

"He said sunset, and the sky is dark."

"Late. He moves with the speed of the silver-haired."

"What shall we ask him for?"

"War stories."

"Dance tunes."

"Love songs!"

"Dreamer!" "Hopeful!"

"I can give you all three, " said a new voice. He was three years older than the others, a Gondorian, similarly dressed, but dusty and smudged.

"There you are!" "Here he is!" "Well met!" "You are well, are you not?" "Shall we go inside?" They embraced him in turn.

"Yes. My day has been long and dry. Who will buy the first round?" said the new arrival.

"You're the wealthy traveller!"

"Yes, and I've spent it all, " he laughed. The four young men entered the Inn.

[mark12_30]

The four young men went to the bar, ordered some mild ale, and took their drinks to a table. Morien walked past them, and grunted a greeting, followed by a laugh. "Haven't seen the Three Trees here for quite a while, Hîriest! You come home, and I gain not one customer, but four."

The dusty newcomer grinned at the others. "Your reputation still proceeds you."

"You are one of us yourself!"

"He said Three Trees. Not four."

"You have been gone a whole year. It took half that time til they renamed us."

"What did they call you at first?"

The three younger men exchanged glances. "Different things."

"What things?"

"Four Trees Short One."

"Four Trees Down to Three."

"The Emptying Grove."

Hîriest began to chuckle.

"Four Trees, One Gone."

"Four Trees but One Was An Ent."

Hîriest laughed out loud.

Morien walked past. "My own favorite was, Four Trees But One Took A Wrong Turn."

"I did not take a wrong turn, " objected Hîriest.

"Well, " said Morien, "I still pride myself on being able to tell them apart."

"Really."

Morien nodded.

"Name us, then!"

Morien set down his tray, and cleared his throat. Going around the table from Hîriest's left hand, he pointed. "Doroninn. Gaerbrethil. Calentathar."

All Four Trees shared a smile.

Morien looked from one to the next. "Am I right?"

They laughed. "No."

Morien scowled, and tried again. "Gaerbrethil. Doroninn. Calentathar."

"Try again!"

Morien thought for several moments. "Calentathar. Gaerbrethil. Doroninn."

More laughter gave him his answer, and he snorted in defeat. "Tell me, then!"

"Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, Doroninn!"

"Bah. You trade names each week!"

"Some so accuse us."

Morien stalked off, chuckling.

The boys quieted, and then looked to Hîriest. "So what will your new name be? You can no longer be "Lord of the Wish", for your wish came true, and you travelled beyond Gondor."

"I don't mind my name."

"Oh, but we must give you a new one!"

"Lord of the Horizon!"

Hîriest coughed into his ale.

"Far-Flung Storm!"

"Don't be ridiculous, " Hîriest said.

"Lord of the Rangers?"

Hîriest sighed. "What is wrong with Alagothôn?"

"You cannot be a tree anymore; you have torn up your roots. It no longer suits you."

"Then call me harper, " said Hîriest.

"Harper?"

"That's all? Just... Harper?"

"Too plain!"

Hîriest sat back and waved for another ale. "There is no shame in being plain. Or simple."

Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, and Doroninn exchanged skeptical glances.

"I have been called 'Harper' in many a town. I have gotten used to it. Harper... Talagand... Nandaro..."

The Three Trees were silent, and the signals that passed between them would have puzzled any but Hîriest. He knew they had agreed.

Morien arrived with another ale, and the talk turned to other matters.

[mark12_30]

Hîriest and the Three Trees spent most of the day swapping tales and songs. Hîriest had collected plenty during his year away, and he sang til he was hoarse. Each of the three (Oak, Beech, Willow) insisted on learning a different song, and they were merciless with Hîriest til they knew all the verses cold. By nightfall Hîriest was reduced to sign language and was asking for honey in all of his drinks.

Morien laughed at him. "Come home to your Grove, only to die there? Some friends."

Hîriest shook his head, and hoarsely whispered, "If I die of singing too much, it will not be here. I will be on the road again come dawn."

"What!" "You cannot mean it!" "You just arrived!"

Hîriest raised his last glass. "Nonetheless, I must depart. I will return as soon as I may. There is a large celebration in a far country in the West. I will meet a friend along the way."

"What friend?" asked Beech.

"His name is LinGalad. He is a Mirkwood elf. We sang much together when I visited there. He will meet me at Bree."

"And you leave in the morning?"

"I must, " said Hîriest, giving Willow a shove. "Or I will have no voice left." He finished his drink, and they walked out into the night.

[mark12_30]

Dusty and dirty, Hîriest stumbled into the Inn. Morien looked up, grunted as if Hîriest hadn't left, and poured him an ale without asking. Handing it to him, he said, "Welcome back."

Hîriest nodded. "Thank you. I see the Three Trees are here already."

"Hail!" called Beech from a far table. Willow waved, and Oak thumped the table.

Hîriest nodded, and began making his way across. Then he stopped, and looked around. "I don't see him."

"Don't see who?"

Hîriest shrugged. "The fence-climber. The one who trespassed in the dead of night in a graveyard to pay his respects at the grave of a well-loved Loremaster. Well, when he comes by, Morien, give him an ale and say Happy Birthday for us." He fished for a coin, and put it on the bar.

[mark12_30]

"Hîriest, " murmured Willow, "Did you forget something?"

"Did I?" replied Hîriest, blinking.

"I think so, " said Oak. "You could make the lame excuse that she's done quite a bit of travelling lately; but it would hardly fit, since she was last seen here?"

"She was?"

"Yes, she was, " replied Beech.

Hîriest ran a hand across his forehead. "You could tell me."

"Her birthday was the day before yesterday."

Hîriest slumped in his chair, chin in hand. "So I am once again revealed as absentminded."

"Or at least slow on the uptake, " chuckled Beech.

"Well, what do we do now?"

"We drink her health. Are you getting too old for this sort of thing?" said Oak.

"Rascal," replied Hîriest.

"Perhaps, " said Willow.

They raised their mugs. "To the wandering Inkeeper; may her search end in finding, her longings end in joy, and may her journey end safely at Home."

[piosenniel]

A ragged rider from parts west pulls on the reins of her horse, bringing it to a halt in front of the Seventh Star Inn. Two square nails and a few thumps of her rusty hammer later, a smudged notice is firmly affixed to the Inn door:

~*~

X---X Notice of New RPG Opening X---X

Durelin invites you to look at the discussion thread for Bloodstained Elanor.

Click HERE to view it.

The Discussion Thread for this RPG will open to take on players on June 5th.

Players already in the game are: Amanaduial the archer, Arvedui III, Aylwen Dreamsong, Fordim Hedgethistle, and, of course, Durelin.

~*~

‘Well, Bartleby,’ the rider said, adjusting the cinches on the saddle. ‘Back to Eriador, eh?’ She flipped the dilapidated equus a last ginger nut and mounted up.

With a small snort and a somewhat subdued alacrity the horse ambled down the path, heading northwest . . .

[Mithadan]

Morien bustled into the Inn, bearing two sacks of flour on his shoulders. After depositing them by the kitchen door he turned toward the bar and withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket which he used to wipe the sweat from his brows. Even as he turned away, a grey-clad server issued from the kitchen and almost noiselessly lifted the sacks and carried them through the kitchen door.

Sitting at the bar, Morien sighed as a tall mug of ale appeared before him. He drained half of it in a single draught before he placed it back down on the burnished wood. He did not have to look to know that the bar was being wiped as he turned away and the mug was being placed upon a coaster by one of the servitors. At that moment Rimbaud entered. Morien waved him over with a smile.

Still a bit too thin, Morien thought as Rimbaud approached the larger, bearded man. That'll change soon enough though. He's certainly been through enough. "Have you heard when the shipment of Dorwinion Red will arrive?" asked Rimbaud. Morien, or Blacky as he was better known, shook his head. "The traders are a week and more overdue," he answered. "I hope naught's gone awry. I've heard tell of trouble with the Easterlings, again."

Rimbaud scowled, then shrugged. "I'm sure it will arrive soon enough, accompanied by a passle of excuses," the Innkeeper replied. "And what news from the upper circles of the city?"

Morien slapped a hand on his forehead. "Oh, sorry!" he cried. "One thing drives out another as they say. I've a message for you! Should've given it to you before I cooled my throat and numbed my head!"

He handed a scroll over to Rimbaud, who broke the seal, unrolled it and read its contents. A smile appeared upon his face and he stood and walked to the end of the bar, where he posted the scroll upon the wall. "An important announcement!" he cried with a flourish. The guests and regulars rose and crowded about to read the words printed upon the parchment in bold letters. The announcement read as follows:

The Seventh Star and the Lords and Council of Gondor hereby welcome and extend their courtesies, respects and congratulations to CUTHALION who has been named on the roles posted in the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice his trade in the Realm of Gondor.

[mark12_30]

Hîriest, Oak, Willow, and Beech watched as the scroll was tacked up. Hîriest beamed. "Well, lads, perhaps you can wring tunes out of him for a day, and give my voice a rest?"

"Is it mercy you seek?" laughed Oak.

"I can hope, " Hîriest replied. "Whether he sing or no, his tales will be most welcome."

[Nurumaiel]

The door opened softly and a man not old yet not very young stepped in. His face was fair to look upon, his eyes clear and grey, and his hair dark. It was clear that he was of Gondor. He was tall and the way he stood gave the impression of great nobility. His clothing was rich, black in color with a white tree embroidered richly upon it. His eyes looked over the room with a profoud wisdom as well as kindness. He turned to the door, opening it wider, smiling fondly as a young woman stepped in. She was fair to look upon even as he was. Her hair fell down her shoulders in a golden stream, complementing his darker features. At a glance one would suppose she was Rohirric, and indeed she was. While her face was fair she was not slender, but rather large.

The man took her arm and led her to the nearest table, pulling out a chair and gently helping her to sit down. She sat with easy grace, smiling at the man and thanking him. He sat down opposite her and slid his figures over the wood of the table. "Oft have I heard of The Seventh Star spoken, but I have not yet let my wandering steps find its way to the threshold," he said. "I fear I have not chosen a good day to at last see what I have heard spoken. Has the journey wearied you, Ceolwyn?"

Her eyes shone with love and she shook her head, and she said nothing. Her long fingers played with the embroideries on her dress and she gazed about her in curiosity. She was clad in a very loose-fitting dress of green, the shade of the green that could be found on the banners of Rohan that bore the emblem of the white horse. He watched her with a fond little smile and then reached out and took her hand. "Little child, stop playing," he said, laughing softly. Her eyes met his and she smiled. "Do you desire anything to eat?" She shook her head again, still silent. He did not release her hand but studied the bright ring upon her finger. "That's a pretty little trinket," he said. "Where did you get it?" Again she said nothing but merely gazed into his eyes, the expression on her face clearly saying that he knew where she had received it. He nodded. "The ring your brother gave to you when you were a little girl." She nodded.

A silence fell between them, or rather the man fell silent, for the woman had not spoken yet. He stared at the far wall of the room, deep in thought, and she continued to look into his face. Then he looked at her again. "What name?" he questioned. She dropped her eyes and blushed modestly and said nothing. He put one hand to his chin and tapped it thoughtfully. "A Rohirric name?" She nodded. He continued in his thoughts. "For a boy Cyneric perhaps?" A bright smile came to her face and again she nodded. "For a girl you must choose the name," he urged her.

She studied his hand holding her own. She seemed to hesitate before speaking, and then she said, "Eahlwyn."

"You have been planning that name for many a month, have you not?" He laughed when she nodded. "Little silent one, why did your mother not name you for the way you speak... hardly at all?" He increased the pressure on her hand and then released it. "That is what first drew me to you, quiet one... your silence. The other young girls, all laughing and talking with hardly a pause for breath, and you sitting gazing at the sky. And when I spoke to you, you spoke to me just enough to be courteous and no more. How sweet these past two years have been since I took you as my wife." Still she said nothing though her eyes shone brightly. "And our happiness will soon be completed when the little one comes... I eagerly await the day."

She spoke once again, a single word. "Soon," she said.

[Cuthalion]

A tall Elf stopped before the door of The Seventh Star and rested his hand on it before opening it. It had been a long hard road for him and, while the journey was not yet over, he decided to stop and rest awhile. He squinted as he kicked the dust from his boots, looking to see if he could discern any familiar faces, but it seemed that no one he had met in his travels happened to be here at the moment.

He walked over to the bar and removed his bow and quiver from their accustomed place on his back so that he could sit and relax in comfort. A pint of ale appeared and he drank thirstily, grateful for the cool sensation in his throat. With a sigh, the Elf pushed it away, having drained it dry in no time. He then leaned back, with his elbows on the bar and watched what appeared to be a newly arrived family closely. Cuthalion had never been one who made much over children and so he was careful not to attract their attention.

Idly, his thoughts wandered to what had brought him here. A chance meeting in another Inn almost 2 years ago, the writing of a saga and an invitation to commune with the spirits in this place. He looked forward to whatever lay ahead, as he always did, with an open mind and enormous curiosity. He grinned as a second pint found its way to a spot near his elbow. "I think I'm going to like it here." he said to no one in particular.

[mark12_30]

Hîriest and Oak wandered over to greet the elf, both thinking it odd that an elf should drink ale instead of wine, but neither mentioning it. "Greetings, fair one. Welcome to Minas Tirith. I am Hîriest, and this my friend Doronnin, or Oak as he is known."

The elf turned twinkling eyes on the two men, and replied, "Thank you, Oak, and Lord of the Wish." He raised his mug.

"You'll sing for us, won't you?" asked Oak.

"My friend is the very soul of patience," said Hîriest.

While Hiriest and Doronnin spoke with the elf, Willow and Beech came near the Gondorian man and the Rohirric woman. "Welcome to the Seventh Star, " said Willow. "Well met. Whence came ye?" asked Beech. "Are ye weary?" asked Willow.

The man and woman glanced at each other.

Willow paused. "Forgive me. I am Calentathar, and this is Gaerbrethil."

[Cuthalion]

"A song? Ah, my friend, there you have the better of me, for I count myself no Bard. Now, should you be in need of a tale...!" Hiriest looked at him with interest as the Elf sat himself down and began to speak...

" In all the wide world you'll hear tales of woe and well-wishing, of triumph and despair, and most especially that of love and loss. However... Few there are which contain none of the afore-mentioned! This is a tale of utter and complete foolishness, the story of a young Dragon's first venture into the Wild!

Once...many an Age ago, there lived a wily she-Dragon. She it was who let herself be wooed and won by the strongest male of Melkor's brood. Little did he know, that upon seeing her tiny hatchlings for the first time, she would become insanely protective...to the point of madness! Thus it was that one night she stole away from their lair, spiriting her young to a place in the East, where she thought no one could ever trace them... in short, her Dragonish brain had finally cracked...In my opinion, I feel it was her odd penchant for pickled Orc feet!

The poor male died of heart-break and the she-Dragon (the Eol of her kind) kept a watchful eye on her younglings and raised them up on horrid stories of Mad Elves and Evil-eyed Warriors, raising them on foul meats and avocados...except for one. One tiny male was exceptionally cunning and realising his dam for the lunatic she was,(the avocado being the deciding factor) he decided to get while the getting was good. Once she was asleep, with her young clamped in her claws, he eeled his way out from under his usual spot under her armpit...once able to breathe again, he fled, never once looking back. He went on to become a very successful Champion of the Small and Meek, Defender of Vegetarians everywhere...just to spite his dam. To sum up...if you love something, let it go...before it decides to rebel and eat you!"

[Nurumaiel]

Ceolwyn seemed a bit confused at the volley of questions but nevertheless good-natured as she smiled, and as the two questioners introduced themselves the Gondorian man stood and bowed. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance," he said. "My name is Nardon and this is Ceolwyn, my wife." She continued to smile at them and said nothing, but gave them a nod in greeting. Nardon paused and then gestured for the two newcomers to sit. They smiled and accepted his offer politely.

"I will not beseech you repeat your former questions," he said. "I recall them perfectly and I will merely answer them now. I come from this fair land of Gondor, and not far from where this inn stands now. I was born here and raised here but have not lived here all my life. My wife is of Rohan though she has lived in Gondor these past two years."

"And are you weary?" asked Calentathar

Nardon shook his head but glanced at his wife, who made no move to either say 'yes' or 'no' but merely smiled in an expectant way at her husband, as if she wanted him to speak for her. He sighed as he returned his gaze to Calentathar. He had hoped his wife would answer the question for she was skilled at phrasing delicate manners in a way that was not improper. Despite the many cries of praise of his way with words he had heard in his life, he felt clumsy with words, the sly little things. Often he knew in mind and heart what to say but the words would slip away from him so he could not say it.

"She is a little weary," he said, feeling more than a little odd that he must speak for her, but then he had grown accustomed to it, "though we have not travelled very far. However it is to be expected..... in her condition."

[mark12_30]

Calentathar's eyes grew wide. "Allow me to congratulate you, lady, and wish you continued good health." He exchanged uneasy glances with Gaerbrethil, and carefully studied Ceolwyn. "The wait-staff here is very perceptive, my lady, and will meet your needs. But if you would prefer something mild, such as salted oat-cake, I would be happy to find you some."

Gaerbrethil nodded in agreement, and waited breathlessly for Ceolwyn's answer.

At another table, Hîriest chuckled quietly for quite some time. "Well told, friend."

Oak frowned. "What is an avocado?"

Hîriest let a sinister light into his eyes, and raised one eyebrow just a little. "It has knobbly dark skin," he said. "Inside it is pale oily green... with a great slimy stone inside."

Oak shuddered, and gazed at the elf with a new respect.

[Nurumaiel]

Ceolwyn glanced at her husband but he smiled teasingly, shaking his head. He would let her answer for herself this time. The light in her eyes faded; she gazed imploringly at him and he almost gave in, but steeled himself and again shook his head. She looked to Calentathar and blushed slightly when she realized her reluctance to speak might have been regarded as impolite. "I thank you," she said, her voice quiet, "but I am not hungry at the moment." She stopped and seemed relieved that she need not speak more, but became decidedly uneasy when she realize courtesy prompted her to continue. "And I thank you for your congratulations," she said. "I... I am glad you have guessed what my condition is, for it is a difficult subject to speak of... being... being with child, I mean." The color in her cheeks mounted. "One doesn't like to speak of it merely because it might not be considered proper, though the joy is great."

Nardon smiled at her before addressing their 'guests.' "Consider yourselves flattered, my friends," he said. "It is not often my wife will speak in such length to those she just barely knows. Indeed, it is not often she will speak, not even to me, her husband." He could not say why. She had always been so quiet and there had never been too much need for her to talk. He had always understood the little gestures of her hands, the way she smiled, the expression in her eyes. She spoke through those things and rarely through her words. When she did speak to him she would say beautiful things, and he had little doubt that that was way she hardly ever did speak. Her thoughts were beautiful and to speak interrupted them. He knew what she dreamed of every day. The child. She had wept for days with joy when she had learned she was to bear a child, though she had spoken hardly at all. What tender smiles had lingered on her face as she had sewn the little clothes the child would wear, and what fondness was in her voice when he heard her murmuring the names she liked best for the child. 'The joy was great.' She had spoken her heart in those simple words.

"Ah, friends," he said, pulling himself from his reverie, "I lose myself to you in my thoughts. You have graciously offered my wife something to eat and she has denied. Perhaps I might offer to buy you a meal, or at least a drink. I would not lack in the generosity that you possess. It is my delight to give something to you. What would you have?"

[Rimbaud]

And the season turned into another one, and he healed slowly. The Inn took much of his time as he was prevented from thought of adventure by mundane details. Yet still he conversed with his allies, still they kept watch.

He strengthened his eyes and ears in the City gradually, and certain people who may have forgotten his touch became aware again that games were afoot.

The Innkeeper was restless, yet his friends bade him steady. Estelyn allowed him some brief practise with the sword, yet they were of too high a skill to spar for long, and he abhorred the use of the thing in any case. He busied himself cleaning out the stables and pestering Olaf.

Still, when the summer came, a glint in the Innkeepers eye told his closest that business would soon have to be attended.

**************

Stories unfolded and flowered in the Inn, and Rimbaud was pleased that his convalescence allowed him some time to listen to the tales. But the call had gone out, and he had only to wait for the allies to come, before action would take place.

[mark12_30]

In the shadows by the fireplace, a nose twitched and wiskers quivered. Many crumbs had fallen, and the mouse was sleek, though restless at times. Shadows flickered on the walls, and memories flickered in the old room even as the grey-clad servants went noiselessly about their business.

The common room would empty soon, and the mouse planned his evening's trek; the old sea-captain had dropped plenty of crumbs and spilled some beer.

[mark12_30]

The door opened, and a very small figure entered. He looked around at the dark room, quiet and rather dusty, and noted the movements of the nearly-invisible wait-staff.

He climbed into a chair, and one of the waiters approached him, sparing a puzzled glance that a halfling would have strayed into the land of Gondor.

"Wine, please," said the hobbit.

The wine appeared quietly, and the hobbit took the glass and raised it.

"Dear Mister Frodo, and old Mister Bilbo-- both mighty in deed, skilful with pen and song. Happy birthday."

He slowly sipped the wine.

[Bêthberry]

OOC

Hail Gondorians! Please check out Fordim Hedgethistle's new game, Shadow of the West.

It is a game of intrigue set in the Second Age and exploring the creation of the Nazgul. Now, how did Rohan come to be the forum where the dark side is explored?

I've got dibs on the Queen.

Bethberry

[Rimbaud]

In the long-disused old dining room of the Seventh Star, dust lay calmly and unpeturbed. The brash new living room, some three times the size was sufficient for even a great many guests, and the Star had in any case been quieter of late.

Still, outside the locked door of the room, feet padded and thumped, voices called and intrigues played their melodies throughout.

In the top corner of the room, at the far end from the door on the wall nearest the fireplace, a blue velvet wall hanging was starting to come away from the wall. Dust fell from its curled blue edge, sparkling and glinting in the sunlight as it fell. The light blinked in through dusty windows, suffusing the room rich tans and ochres.

The wall hanging slipped a little more, and if there had been anyone to see, a very curious thing happened.

A small paper scroll slipped out from behind the hanging and drifted, unfurling as it fell through the glittering dust to the floor. Its thick papyrus stretching itself out as it fell, it bagan to rotate and swell.

Before it reached the floor, the parchment had calmly and unobtrusively resolved itself into a familiar form in grey and blue. The figure, of medium height and slim build, straightened the odd blue sash that flowed from right-hand shoulder to meet a thinner blue belt at the waist and made silently for the door. Small handfuls of dust puffed into the air from his soft footsteps.

Although he appeared to use no key, merely to stroke the handle, the lock clicked, and the thick wooden door swung towards the grey figure, as noiselessly as if it had been well-oiled in the years since it's last apparent use.

The figure paused in the hall, head turning, then flitted towards the sound and noise of the common room double doors at the end of the hall.

Slipping unobserved through the crack in the doors, the figure skirted the small gathering of drinkers at the centre tables to come to a standstill before a large wall-mounted oak board, upon which golden characters were elegantly scribed. A list of names it was, headed by a notice proclaiming their valiance.

Removing a shadowed something from within his tunic, the figure acted swiftly and quietly, unseen by the room's other occupants, who paid no heed, preferring the crackle of the fire and the ministrations of the barkeeps. Yet, although no sound was made, and although none see the figure leave as silently as it had come, a new name stood in letters on the board; carved as if it had ever been there, stood the name Fordim Hedgethistle.

The business of the Inn paused as people came to their realisations, and paused again as drinks were raised to the newest name on the List; the door to the fogotten dining room remained closed and seemingly undisturbed as always.

[piosenniel]

Pio paused in her game of darts as the familiar figure passed by. ‘Now what’s the old trout up to?’ she wondered. Reaching for her everpresent mug of stout, she ambled over to the iron plaque. Her pink tinged computer glasses rested lightly on the top of her head as she leaned in to see the bright, new name.

‘Fordim Hedgethistle! Well, well . . .’

Turning, she lifted her glass in salute, thinking that perhaps he was waiting in the shadows. ‘Welcome, and well done! Come have a glass!’ she called out, her grey eyes narrowing as she looked about the dim lit room.


Kudos, Fordim!

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The odd, ragtag crew of folk that approached the Gate of Minas Tirith that morning drew the stares of all who beheld it. At the front of the column there marched a furious looking Dwarf with a mighty axe flung across his shoulder, upon which was carved in the strange runes of the Dwarves the name of Haenir. Behind him there came as odd a pair of Men as any in that city – which was used to wonders – had seen. The dark man was tall and sharp, with deep grey eyes and a stern aspect. Some about the walls recognised him and called out “Run and tell the King that his kinsman Tar-Corondir has returned!” Others looked not at the Black Numenorean King, but at his companion the handsome and still boyish Hearpwine: “The Bard of Rohan has come! The Bard of Rohan!” arose from all quarters, as they anticipated with glee the songs that he would sing for them. There was a tall Elf as well, and those who were visiting the City from the Golden Woods recognised the renowned warrior Ambarturion One-Hand, and they wondered to see him so far removed from the land of Lorien.

But the surprise of the people at these appearances was as nothing when the party entered the gates. For accompanying the noble party of Dwarf, Elf and Men were other, more curious figures. There was an aged Hobbit mounted upon a donkey. The Halfling gazed sourly at the buildings about him as though wishing he were anywhere else. To repeated inquiries he replied that his name was Fordogrim Chubb, and no, he was no relation to Frodo, Meriadoc, Peregrine or Samwise, whoever they might be, and he had no wish to be known to them as from the sound of things they were crack-brained folk who left their own land for Adventures of which he wanted no part.

Sulking along behind Mister Chubb was a ragged figure of a Man in tattered clothes. He had a glum aspect but there hung about his eyes a hard-forged determination, and those who looked into those eyes knew that he was capable of great strength beyond his narrow frame. He spoke with the accents of Mordor, to their great consternation, and had the uncouth name of Grash.

Most harrowing of all to those who beheld the party was the dark figure of nightmare who followed at the end of the column upon a great black horse. A rumour of terror came before him and many fled before the form of Khamul, but he looked neither left nor right and seemed unaware of the consternation he caused.

The company wound its way through the streets, drawing ever greater crowds, until they arrived at the door of the Seventh Star. There they paused, and a strange quiet seemed to descend upon them all. They looked at one another for a second and then, strangely, they all moved toward the door at once. And whether it was that they somehow grew smaller, or that the door loomed up larger than before, they seemed to pass through it at once, and as they passed through it they seemed to disappear, or – rather – to become one. In the space between the batting of an eyelash the large party which had entered the doorway was replaced by the single, unassuming form of a simple man exiting that same doorway.

After the marvels they had beheld, he was a disappointing sight to those who had gathered to welcome him, and some sighed and turned away, while others clucked their tongues and returned to their beverages. Fordim Hedgethistle nervously ran his hand through his hair to push it out of his eyes before sneaking a peak at the sign which had been altered to include his name. He allowed himself a quick flush of success and pride before moving to the bar and ordering a pint of their best ale. Taking a deep quaff he turned and said to the eminences who were gathered in this place:

“Cheers!”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Loremistress of Minas Tirith had her sources, and as always Estelyn's connections with the host of the "Seventh Star" made her privy to the news sooner than most others knew of it. Pausing only to gather a stack of blank parchments, her favourite pen, and a goodly supply of ink, she hurried over to the Inn. Impetuously, she pushed open the door to the common room, which had begun to fill satisfactorily.

She waved to the keeper of the drinks, who looked over and called out, "The usual, Princess?"

"No", she smiled, "this is a special occasion and calls for something special! Do you have a good bottle of that wonderfully bubbly wine in your cellar?"

He nodded and disappeared, only to reappear a few moments later with a dusty, promising-looking bottle in his hand. He wiped it clean, then carefully and steadily pulled out the cork with an attention-getting "plop!" Fordim was not the only one who turned around to investigate the source of the sound, but he was the first to whom she waved.

"Come on over and have a glass!" she said invitingly. "This is your party!" And the bottle must have had some Faery quality to it, for it did not become empty, no matter how many glasses were filled.

Yet, ever mindful of her responsibility to the White City's Library, she kept her writing materials in readiness and listened for new stories by the newcomer. Rumour had it that he often asked for people's opinions, keeping tally of the results, but she was sure that there were many good tales to be had if she listened for awhile.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Looking down out of the dust-covered window of the room which she had rented, but whose rent the disused Inn had long since failed to collect, Aman watched the gates of Minas Tirith almost disinterestedly, her head leaning against the window frame as if she was dozing off, motionless as she was: why, she could have been there forever, a forgotten rag doll in the attic. But as the sounds of laughter, then of cheers, began to waft up from the streets, the woman's green eyes brightened somewhat and, as the cheers grew in volume and confidence, the young woman slowly raised her head from where it had rested. Finally, in the streets below, she saw the procession draw up and, as the first of two men drew into sight behind a dwarf she did not recognise, Aman's face cracked slowly into a wide smile. Like that rag-doll puppet now come alive, she leapt from the window seat, running out of the door and pounding down the corridor to the stairs, dust flying up in her wake.

"Cheers!"

As Fordim took a pull of his drink and uttered that single word, Aman gave a delighted laugh from the balcony above, and swept an overdone, elegant bow down at him. "Long have we waited for you to enter these doors, Fordim! Welcome Snaveling, Hearpwine, Haerin, Grash, Ambarturion and..." she trailed off slightly, eyeing the shadow-cloaked witch-king suspiciously, a figure whom she had come into conflict with more than once. Then she shrugged. "Welcome all, to the Seventh Star, and to Gondor!"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim blushed from the unexpected attentions of such luminaries. Returning Aman's bow with his own clumsy attempt (he saw her politely hide her snicker) he thanked her for the welcome. "It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude for my admission to this realm, my lady. Were it not for you and the wondrous climes of the Green Dragon Inn I would not have stayed at the Downs for very long. But I must not forget Pio the Inestimable either, nor Child, who also made gaming there so wondrous and rewarding. And lest I be admonished by the Lady Bethberry (whose eye I can see glittering already) and Mistress Aylwen I hasten to add that my time in Rohan was as rewarding as it was challenging. But on to new matters!

"I have, for a time, been wondering about the possibility of bringing a new type of game to the RPG forums of this place. Over in the Mirth Thread there has been an ongoing series of adventures in which vailiant villagers conted with werewolves -- I have thought that such a story might make for an interesting RPG...

"It may be immodest of me to propose something of that nature when I have not been in Gondor for more than a week, but I merely mention it to give Esty something to jot down in her tablets. For it seems to me that a full Werewolf RPG in which the Game Initiator were to assume the duties of a game moderator might be quite entertaining. It would, of course, be an actual RPG and adhere to RPG rules and standards; it would be an RPG modelled on the game of werewolf and not a game of werewolf that attempts to be an RPG. It would also, ideally, be an RPG in which rather, shall we say, experienced gamers would play so that we could keep the game on track and involved with the intrigue of it all...

"But that is mere wondering on my part, and more than likely it is the result of my having taken too much of the ale and bubbly of this fine establishment!"

[Durelin]

Durelin flashed her big beautiful canines at Fordim as she burst into the Seventh Star for the first time. She had gotten over her fear of entering the famed establishment before she even touched the door, but she was still a little daunted upon entering. Those who sat there and took their rest every day were of the finest, and she knew it; writers and adventurers who had weathered such a great multitude of quests and battles and different personalities that she could feel herself getting dizzy simply at the thought of it all. To consider the hopeless dream that she might one day feel more at home in the Seventh Star made her feel giddy enough that she swaggered over the Fordim Hedgethistle to give him a pat on the back.

It was perhaps a little hard pat on the back, but it was certainly a fond one. Her face reddened a bit as she wondered if this was perhaps a breach in protocol, Fordim now being a great Gondorian, and her being only half a Rohirrim. And that bit of wondering brought her to face the truth that she was indeed a slacker for still being barely acquainted with Rohan. She decided to order a round just for herself to drown her sorrows, and then sat down and propped her feet up at a nearby table.

"First of all, my dear Fordim, congratulations. Second, I will say that I've been too insecure to voice the idea of a Werewolf RPG, and have avoided engaging too obsessively in the Werewolf frenzy for fear of being a follower, which is widely against my nature, but it excites me that such a game might occur..." She sighed heavily, but not sadly, feeling annoyingly nostalgic. "O the never-ending allure of RPGs... I would love to take part in a game with you again, Fanatical Fordim, if perhaps it would be allowed that I partake in a Gondorian game (assuming that some kind of game will be born in Gondor in the near future), recalling your first game RPed, and your first game managed, the latter of which I remember with regret... So, I just thought I'd stop by and join in the cheers, even though I am a little behind in the proceedings, as usual."

[mark12_30]

"Werewolves? Hmmm...." muttered Willow, giving Oak and Beech a wary glance. "Interesting. Well, Master Fordim, welcome; we do look forward to your tales. Shall we hear you sing? Or, perhaps, howl--"

Beech cuffed him sharply.

Willow was indignant. "I was being polite. Culturally sensitive. Open minded."

"Save it, sapling," muttered Oak, and then stepped forward. "Welcome, Fordim of the Gauntlet! Be not startled; word travels. We shall gladly hear your tales, be they vengeful or rabid, all in good time, my dear fellow, all in good time. Cheers!"

[Child of the 7th Age]

There was a lull in conversation as the Inn door swung open to reveal a small, bedraggled hobbit slumped over on the stoop. Cami Goodchild slowly placed one furry foot ahead of the other and rose unsteadily, hoisting up a claw hammer with one hand and an overflowing bucket with the other. Strapped to her back was a large canvas sling that carried the remains of what looked like someone's garden fence. Water dripped down from Cami's curly hair and round red nose making a considerable accumulation on the spot where she was standing.

"Watch out there!", growled one of the serving lads standing near the door. "Yer makin' a terrible mess on the floor, now. Get down there and clean up that puddle, or there'll be no hot meal and flagon of ale for you.

Cami stuck out her tongue at the good fellow who was nearly twice her size, "Enough! I've had enough headaches the past few days. I just wanted to come down to the Seventh Star and offer my best wishes to the illustrious Master Fordim. Only I've had such a hard time getting here. Our home was hit with a slew of bad weather, fierce stuff that reminded me of the Tale of Beleriand that Master Bilbo used to recite. Great winds and water, such as you wouldn't believe! So I don't see why you are making such a fuss over a bit of water on the floor."

The lad responded in a gentler voice, "Sorry there now. I didn't know you'd run into such a string of bad luck. Are you alright now, Mistress Cami?," he queried. "Not hurt I hope....you or your burrow?"

"No," added Cami with a shake of her head and a reassuring smile. "We are all doing quite well. We thought of leaving and staying with my cousin Widow Bunche who hails from the westlands. But there were so many carts and horses on the road that it was impossible to make any real progress. After seven hours of going in circles, we came back in and hunkered down in our burrow for the night. We've a mess to clean up, but nothing worse than that. But I am most grateful to see this nasty weather go away. Still, there are folk much worse off than I. Some live further east and their homes were flattened to the ground. Others are older folk living in my neighborhood who have little food stocked away for hard times like these. I need to give my greetings quickly and then return to the Shire to see if I can help."

With that, Mistress Cami ran over towards the place where Fordim was sitting.

[Bêthberry]

A pleasant cacaphony of voices, cheers and activity rolled around the Star as the party to celebrate Fordim's arrival in Gondor progressed. Towels and mops had greeted Cami's arrival but then they were put away and the floor was left to a gossipy hum about werewolves and survivors. At first, few noticed the strange little man who entered the front door but as he made his way into the storied inn, voices began to drop and fade away.

He was of stature slight, particularly compared to Gondorians, although taller than either Cami or Fordim. He carried himself proudly, his lithe body speaking of skill and agility rather than mass and torpor. He might be said to favour one leg, yet it could not be said he appeared crippled. A veteran of wars he apparently was, for he also bore a long scar from a thin right eyebrow down across his high cheekbone to his ear, part of which was missing. The eye under the scar was closed, the sunken lid hanging over the socket that now was useless. A perpetual twitch pulled the muscles of his cheekbone, giving his face a strange sensation of rapid motion.

His hair, straight and black and cut evenly, hung down past his ears and was held in place by a red band across his forehead, a style rarely seen in the White City. His nose was broad but long, set on an equally long face with square jaw and small mouth, thin lipped. Yet of all his features it was his sallow, tawny skin which stiffened the attention of the Star's patrons.

The room went silent as he surveyed them first and then sought out the funny hobbit whose face was hidden behind a tankard.

Two, maybe three men from the corner rose towards him. "We don't see your kind much in these parts."

The man ignored them and continued walking towards Fordim. Another man spoke louder.

"He said, Easterling, we don't see your kind here. He meant, we don't want your kind here."

"Halt," spoke a voice with authority. A guard of Gondor, with an empty sleeve tied to his tunic , came forward and took a long look at the man's face. He paled. "Sôông, Sôông the Sullen," he said.

The man looked at him from his one good eye and, awareness flooding into his face, nodded slowly.

"We met on the Pelennor Field."

A tankard crashed in the kitchen, but none were startled by the sound.

They looked over each's wound. "An eye for an arm, Thregor," whispered Sôông.

"You dare to show your face in The White City?''

"I come on errand." A murmur arose.

"And who would bid an enemy enter our walls?"

"One who calls me not enemy." The murmur grew louder.

"Of who among us would you claim that?"

"One not here." Dust hung in the air refusing to twist in the sunlight as Thregor considered his options.

"Name him and state your peace."

Sôông took his time, marking the faces staring at him. His eyes lighted on the person who fit the description he had been given.

"I come on errand from Edoras, from the White Horse. Bethberry is she who will not name me enemy. Bethberry it is who has a message for the hobbit recently come to your city."

Fordim spoke up. "What could Bethberry ask of you concerning me?"

"She bids me say you departed in such haste that you left no instructions for her concerning your banner. She asks what colours you wish and what design for your story of the East."

"Well I'll be," said Fordim, astonished at the Innkeeper's audacity. He had never in his life come face to face with an Easterling and now here she was poking one in his face.