The Inn of the Prancing Pony

[Tharmáras]

"The Prancing Pony sits down the road from the West Gate of Bree, and has been sitting there for a long time. Although in days gone by it saw a lot more custom than it does these days it is still a popular stopping place for travelers, both friendly and unfriendly and for those mysterious men known as Rangers. It also serves as a popular meeting place for the inhabitants of Bree; it has always been a great place to hear all the local gossip, and to eagerly awaiting ears an even better place to tell it. The innkeeper, Barliman Butterbur is an important person around these parts and is known by all. Together with his servants Bob and Nob they keep the place running smoothly and keep the atmosphere warm and welcoming to any who come a-calling.

Upon entering the inn, one is greeted by the sight of many tables and chairs on the near side of the taproom, which are freely pushed and pulled about by patrons to whatever configuration suits them best. On the far side, longs trestle tables with benches take up the majority of the space, and all along the wall opposite the door sits a vast three-sided oak bar, behind which Barliman Butterbur (played by Tharmáras) holds court with his stocks of ales and wines and liqours. A swinging door where the left end of the bar meets the wall provides access to the bar, and through a second door behind it, to the kitchen. All along the bar are stools, where the less (or more, depending) social can nurse their brews. At the back wall a set of stairs runs up to the second story, where comfortable rooms await those spending the night, and behind the inn is a generous block of stables."
- Written long ago by Merly


Attention: It's spring evening at the Pony in the Third Age year 3014.

Barliman Butterbur, the innkeeper, will be roleplayed by Aigronding but you will see him seldom.
At the moment, visitors can speak with my barkeep Edward Sugarplum. Anyone who would like to offer menu additions or be part of the staff as a cook, server, housekeeper, stablehand,
or minstrel please let me know in the Rivendell Activities Thread and I'll add your character name/position here in the OP viewtopic.php?f=10&t=34 .

PONY MENU

Drinks:
Old Hill Ale – A dark malty beer, fairly bitter
Pale Archet Ale - A honey colored ale with a perfectly white head and hints of citrus
Dry Staddle Stout – An almost black beer, characterized by a toast or coffee-like taste. Hobbits love it.
Brown Ale – Dark amber beer, sweet and smooth, with a hint of chocolate.
Hard Apple Ale - A cloudy, sweet-tart ale where apples take the lead in flavor
Nob's Fearsomely Sharp Lemonade - A tart addition to our menu that provides a tangy, citrus blast for your tasting pleasure.
Bob's Dry Perry Cider - This dedlightfully crisp cider offers a sweet aroma with a distinctive, lingering pear taste.
Prince William - This dark, roasty beer with hints of caramel and chocolate was named for a noble of ancient Cardolan.
King Henry - The most dangerous brew in the business. And inky black, malty, hoppy, punch-you-in-the-face confection. Limit: three glasses per customer per night.
Dorwinion Red - A deep, dark red wine imported from the east. Makes Elves fall asleep so be careful pointy ears.
Blackberry Wine - Coming from a mysterious supplier, this fruity wine will lay you low most pleasantly.
Peredhel - A dry white of Flutterbye Vineyards with flavors of peaches and honeysuckle named for a frequent half-elven guest here.
Queen Ann - A red wine of Flutterbye Vineyards which is soft and sweet as its namesake, a queen of old Cardolan. Layers of cherry and blackberry.
Honeymeade - Miss Lisbeth's straight bourbon whiskey, a deliciously smooth liqueur infused with real golden honey.
Imladris Brandy - Made from apricots, cherries, plums, or berries from Linymaril of House Mordagnir in Rivendell
Tea - Black, Thingol Grey, green, white, herbal, and chamomile.
Milk - Cold or warm, for the little ones.

Food:
Bread - White and crusty, thick & heavy wheat, one with lots of seeds. Comes with fresh butter.
Beef & Mustard - Slabs of roast beef and a pot of mustard, with the bread of your choice
Stew – Rich, filling venison stew with barley and good root vegetables
Potted Hare – Rabbit stewed in red wine, shredded, mixed with lemon and thyme.
Cheese & Pickle Sandwich - Crunchy dill pickles, mature cheddar, and mayonnaise.
Roasted Chicken – Whole or half, cooked on a spit over an open fire and basted in its own drippings, well salted and peppered, with a hint of rosemary.
Roasted Coney – Tender rabbit, whole or half, seasoned and stuffed with onion and sage
Bangers and Mash – Beef sausage and fluffy mashed potatoes, with onion gravy.
Pie - Mince, Cherry, Peach, apple
Fresh fruit
Plum Cobbler
Willow Oaks honey-roasted peanuts, chestnuts, and black walnuts
Cinnamon Squares: A warm delicious dessert bar-shaped cookies filled with cinnamon and drizzled with caramel syrup.

Rules:

1.) There is no story structure for this RP however do look at the OP occcasionally for weather/time updates from me.Only Tharmáras uses Barliman, Bob, Nob, Aragorn, and Gandalf here. Annúnfalas writes Bill Ferny.

2.) Please review the Roleplaying Code of Conduct before posting https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/rol ... of-conduct . No spamming or godmoding please. To preserve the sanctity of the Tolkienesque atmosphere, no sexual allusions/content/jokes are allowed and fandom/franchise crossovers are forbidden. If I see or am notified you have crossed lines or incur OOC complaints, you will be asked to edit your post. Thanks for understanding.

[Rior Laegiel]

Granny Smith

Taking a last deep breath of the evening air before pushing the door open and stepping inside, Granny is surprised to find the inn empty save for the barkeep. It feels like ages since she last visited the Prancing Pony or any other establishment as the elderly hobbit had found herself preferring a quiet night at home or spending time with Lilah, her granddaughter, to the company of large amounts of people for quite some time.

'I wouldn't be surprised if people have quite forgotten about me,' chuckling to herself at the thought as she approaches the bar, Granny takes a seat with a quiet sigh and put her hands on the counter.

It had been a long day of baking cheese and mushroom pies and a large dose of spring cleaning but tonight, for the first time in a long time, she had wanted to go talk to someone other than herself or her black and white, pink-nosed cat Jensen. It was Lilah that had named him when he was a kitten and Granny hadn't had the heart to change it and risk disappointing her only grandchild who loved the cat more than anything, so Jensen it was.

Being in her early 70's her former dark brown hair had turned white and grey and the smooth skin if youth long passed had turned wrinkly.

"Hullo," greeting the barkeep (Edward) she smiles and as she is unsure of his name she introduces herself "I'm Granny, not sure if you remember me or if we've even met, I'm not exactly known for showing my 'pretty' face outside my own hole much nowadays," at the word pretty she rolls her eyes a little and gives him a short playful smile to let him him know that she's joking and not to take it seriously.

Pausing for a moment to give him a chance to reply her stomach seemes to think it's a good time to remind her that she'd totally forgotten all about supper in her rush to get to the inn.

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

NPC Fallon Underwood

The weary hobbit watches the door under the sign of the Prancing Pony intently. He has been out in the alleyway, concealed in the shadows, for long hours, and when his vigilance begins to fail him – each time his tired eyes begin to droop – he leans forward so that the pommel of his hidden weapon prods him rudely in the pit of his ample belly.

The aromas drifting across the street (good ale and fine provender) are the worst hardship of his vigil, for he last partook of a meal at mid-afternoon. At length the promise of warm food and a cool draught prove too much, and he moves from hiding, the firm warning of caution given by his friend in the Shire a week ago forgotten.

He finds the bar empty – of course it is, he hasn’t seen anyone enter the place in hours! - save for an old woman (Granny Smith) and the publican.

“I’ll have a nice tall mug of your finest,” he says, scrambling onto a stool besides the old gammer without so much as: a do you mind, ma’am?

In a thrice he has laid out his smoking gear on the bar counter, chubby fingers packing his pipe as he studies the menu board on the opposite wall.

[SidraLockel Eltoran]

Sidra trudged up the road towards the Prancing Pony. Even though it was a fair spring evening, she kept the hood of her black cloak pulled up; hiding as much of her face as she could. She didn’t know who might be around, and she wanted no trouble from the rough men that she heard sometimes frequented Bree. She had been given leave to go into the town, have a good meal, and listen to the rumors from the surrounding areas – if there was any to be had. She was dressed simply enough - boots, pants, tunic, shirt, and bracers – all of which were black, save for her shirt which was a navy blue. A curved Elven Knife hung at her waist. Usually she would have had her sword and bow on her as well, but she didn’t want those things to make her stand out. She was skilled with her dagger after all; it would serve her well if she got into trouble, as long as she wasn’t too out numbered.

She pushed those thoughts from her mind; she was good at avoiding notice if needed. As long as she stayed alert to trouble, she’d be fine. She pushed open the door to the Prancing Pony, scanning the room as the door closed behind her. It was basically empty, save for the staff, and two Hobbits. She felt some of the tension in her shoulders relax – she wouldn’t have to retreat to a lone corner with so few people around. I can risk it. She thought to herself, pushing the hood of her cloak back to reveal her long ebony hair.

She walked to the bar, taking a seat beside the elderly Hobbit (Granny Smith). She gave a curt nod to the barkeep (Edward). “A pint of your Brown Ale, some bread, and a bowl of stew, if you please.” She said, placing her coin on the bar. He took the money, and quickly brought her her order. She nodded her thanks, before ripping a chunk out of the thick, heavy wheat bread and slathering it in butter. She popped it in her mouth and chewed contently. Taking a sip of sweet ale, she turned her dark umber eyes towards the Hobbits. “Good evening.” She said, to Granny Smith and Fallon Underwood. “How fare you this fine evening?” She noted Fallon’s smoking gear laid out on the bar counter. “That’s a lovely pipe.” She said, taking another sip of her ale, “I hear the Shire has the best pipe weed around.”

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

NPC: Fallon Underwood

The hobbit’s vigil at the bar of the common room had proved asfruitful as his watch from the alley.

True, he was snug and warm, the heft of a third tankard of rather fine pale ale in his chubby hand, but conversation had proved meagre. The old gammer next to him (Granny Smith) had not uttered a word since he took up his perch. And as for the barkeep… Well, Surly might as well be his given name!

He turned eagerly as the wind off the street found his neck, and watched intently as a tall woman (Sidra) crossed the room.

A traveller for sure… But how to strike up a conversation discretely?

“It does, ma’am,” he smiled, turning towards her. “Or at least it had when I was last there, and that was many years ago. My weed is passably good though, it comes from the warm fields of Gondor away down South, where, I believe it is known as Westman’s Weed.

Have you travelled far, ma’am? Are you partial to a smoke? Ah, but come, I forget my manners.

Very pleased to meet you, ma’am, Fallon is my name – Fallon Underwood.”

[SidraLockel Eltoran]

Sidra regarded the Hobbit (Fallon) cautiously, though she kept her face serene. A traveler, huh? There were very few Hobbits who would venture out from the safety of the Shire. At most, their wandering would take them as far as Bree. It would appear this Hobbit had been much further abroad. “Fallon, a pleasure.” She said, giving him a bow of her head. “Underwood? I must admit, I am not familiar with that name. What Farthing does your family hail from?”

She smiled at him. “Forgive me, I am forgetting my manners myself. My name is Sidra.” She brushed a strand of her raven hair behind her pointed ear before taking another slip of her beer. “I do not smoke myself, but I know many who do. It can be a comforting enough smell on a fine night. Westman’s Weed, you say? I shall have to keep that in mind, if my travels ever take me that way and my companions are in need of a good smoke.” She broke another chunk off her bread and coated it in butter. “You say you haven’t been to the Shire in many years, that is surprising. I was not aware that Hobbits travelled far from home. It has been very pleasant out lately, so I should not have minded if I had to travel far tonight, but as fortune would have it…I did not travel very far.” She gave him a wink.

She popped the bread into her mouth and ate it, then pulled her bowl of stew towards her. “Did you really travel to Gondor, Fallon? That would be quite a feat for a Hobbit, if you don’t mind my saying. Even on horseback that would take…months.” She shook her head. “That’s a long time to be on the road.”

[Anárië]

The passages through Eriador took both time and patience, and then of course you also had to spend much of your vigilance simply to avoid running into trouble. The North was becoming a slightly less welcoming place, Anárië thought to herself as she guided the stallion down the street in Bree, but her musings were interrupted by needing to avoid a direct run-in with a cart that came from the other direction, rather helter-skelter as far as she was concerned. Her horse snorted and shied away to the side, prancing lightly on nimble feet while she murmured quietly, keeping a firm hold on the reins and her attention on just where the cart would be off to next. It seemed the driver wasn't planning on spending much time arguing with her. Well enough.

Shaking her head and brushing a wayward strand of what could only be called baby hair that seemed to take particular pleasure in curling around her temples, the elleth clicked her tongue gently and made her way forward. If her memory served, the Prancing Pony remained the number one establishment here in Bree, and she'd be glad for a pint of something strong tonight, a room to sleep in, and then breakfast the next morning before she bid the village farewell. Both she and her horse were tired enough, and could do with some Bree hospitality, which was fabled enough, if you had both money to spend and interesting news to share in the common room.

The sign hanging above the door greeted her like an old friend, and she considered the number of times she'd visited here in the past. Often enough, truth be told, but not for a while now, so every time was almost like a new experience, especially for an Elf, who did not count years the same way the Secondborn did. The sounds coming from within were rather subdued for a fine spring evening, when she might have expected more people to be out and about, but perhaps they were all cozied up in their own homes and unwilling to stir from their hearths. That could also be a fairly good reason.

Dismounting and unearthing the Hobbit who would look after her horse, she made her way inside the inn proper, pushing back the hood of her cloak and letting her fair hair out to breathe. She knew she generally stood out among all the darker colouring she encountered, but at this point she acknowledged it, like she acknowledged that there were normally eyes on the sword she didn't often detach from her side, and moved along. As she'd guessed from without, the inn was actually rather quiet that night, surprisingly so. Two Hobbits and an Elf, and that seemed to be it as far as the eye could tell. "Good evening," she greeted Granny Smith, Fallon and Sidra pleasantly, walking up to the bar where they all sat, "mind if I join you? A pint of Pale Archet please, barkeep," she added politely as she turned her head to the man.

[SidraLockel Eltoran]

Sidra’s attention was drawn away from the Hobbits to the door as she heard it opening. Her eyebrows rose slightly with both surprise and pleasure as she recognized the newcomer as an Elf! Her fair hair marked her as a full Elf and not a Half-Elf like Sidra was. Even if the Prancing Pony suddenly were to fill with unsavory characters, she knew that she would have an ally in the Elf. She smiled at Anárië as she came and stood by the bar, and said brightly: “Ai mellon! Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo! Nanya Sidra. Man esselya na? (Hail friend! A star shines on the hour of our meeting! My name is Sidra. What’s your name?)” Then in the common tongue, she added, “Please, join us!” She took a sip of her ale. “Have you travelled far this night?”

Sidra was excited to have run into a child of the Eldar here in Bree, and she wondered what news this newcomer could offer her. It had been months since she had last been surrounded by any of her kinsman in Rivendell, and even longer since she had been home to the Golden Woods of Lothlorien. She didn’t realize she had missed the company of other Elves so much, until tonight. “If you’re hungry, mellon, may I suggest the bread. It is warm and tasty.” Perhaps she should have greeted the Elf more cautiously, but she couldn’t seem to keep the warmth from her voice.

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

NPC: Fallon Underwood

The hobbit was rather pleased with the alias he’d given the woman (Sidra). It certainly beat the hastily garbled one he’d supplied the stall-holder in Michel Delving two days before. Yes… Rankweed, what a corker that had been! Underwood and Fallon were far better, both mischievously alluding to a stranger and shadows under trees.

He set a light to the bowl of his pipe and peered wide-eyed as the woman introduced herself. An Elf! How wonderful! But he soon began to feel a trifle uncomfortable. She was fair spoken – weren’t all the Eldar? – but her questions needed to be answered carefully unless his cover, like another’s had been in this very common room, be blown through recklessness.

He took a long pull on his pipe, making a great show of popping smoke-rings over the head of the barkeep, before replying. Then just as he was about to, just as he thought he’d say something the keen-eared Elf-maid would seize on as false, another clear voice rang out across the room.

Fallon smiled at the new-comer - another Elf (Anárië) if you could believe it! – and listened in wonder as Sidra greeted her in a tongue that sounded like song rather than speech.

”Pleased to meet you,” the hobbit smiled at their new companion. “I am Fallon Underwood. What a pleasure it is to meet two of the Fair Folk in Bree.”

[Tharmáras]

"How's the night going, baby?"

"Slow, Pa," answered his teenage daughter, red hair swishing as she turned about to face him from the tap she held. "Can I go home?"

"Flutterbye's forge, you mean," he replied with a knowing grin. His child was determined to become a smith. She worked most nights as a serving girl here at the Pony but often by daylight she was usually learning skills as a journeyman at the forge. "Don't be a jive turkey, okay?" he said, drawing a giggle from her. "It's too late, honey. I know Allison's father gave you a key but I don't want you out after dark unless you're with me, alright?" He shook his head ruefully, wiping down the sticky bar with a wet cloth. "The streets can be dangerous when the sun goes down. Got too me brigands coming up the Greenway."

"I'll listen to ya, Pa," Amy promised him, kissing his thick luxuriant beard.

"Tell your friend, Lauren Yellowbell, to listen to me!" lectured Edward as she ventured toward the smoky common room floor carrying a tray of ales with impressive grace. "I'm sure it's your buddy stealing the rasin cookies back here!" he insisted, flinging a hand at the jar behind the bar. Amy ignored him though, cheering her girl. Lauren, a cute flaxen-haired belle of Archet wearing a violet laced kirtle embellished with golden silk, was energized this evening. She played Summer Leaves, a lively backwoods tune, old as the hills, on her fiddle amid receptive guests. Her spirited performance got several Elves and mortals to dance out of their seats or benches; others clapping their hands along to the rousing music. She grinned and jigged merrily, sunny blonde curls bouncing off her shoulders, sweat glistening her brow from the exertion.

Yes. It was another fine night in the Bree-land.

"Granny Smith, bless my eyes!" Edward exclaimed, taking her wrinkled hand to chastely kiss. "Of course, I remember you. It's hard to forget a Hobbit-lass who's sweet as green Archet apple, miss. Say, if I get you something to eat maybe you'd return the favor. Perhaps you could spend some hours in the kitchen here at the Pony one day of the week. I bet ole Barliman would like to sell your pies or perhaps you wouldn't mind parting with your recipe..."

A smoking Hobbit asked him for a tall mug of his finest ale. "I have a keen liking for Pale Ale, little mister. How does three tankards sound? The third's on me, pal. Anything for a chap who smokes Westman's." Edward chuckled when the halfling blew smoke-rings above his head as he poured the drinks. "Do you fancy Bree-land tobacco?" he asked, settling the stonemare cups before the Hobbit named Fallon Underwood. "It's called Goodfellow in these villages. I could let you try the Brown Label. It tastes like toffee." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You look weary, bud. Need a room for the night or longer perhaps?"

Edward was delighted to see a raven-haired elleth arrive. "What brings you from Lindon, ma'am?" Edward asked, taking her shiny coin. "Do you hail from Círdan's realm and travelling to Rivendell or perhaps you're from Lothlórien and travelling to the sea?" Edward gave a shout to the slim burnette server, Fern Hollow, who was breezing by toward the kitchen, and asked her to get some bread & bitter with a bowl of stew for the Elf maiden. "We get plenty of elven travellers here," he mentioned, filling a glass with brown ale for Sidra. "Some are from the Elven League, a host of warriors Elrond's herald - a High Elf lord named Mordagnir - is mustering from all the nearest elven nations. Others are lone vagabonds, wandering companies, or merchants." He handed Sidra her drink and smiled widely. "My favorite Elves are the minstrels. You see anything they're singing of right before your eyes."

Edward was astonished when the elven blonde (Anárië) came to the bar, asking for a Pale Ale. "We do have pints, miss, and you can have one," he assured her with a wink. "It surprises me Elves love a good beer," he admitted, yanking back the appropriate tap. "Before I started serving your lot, I thought y'all drank wine all day like them Mirkwood Elves in There and Back Again, ha!" He slid her the glass. "What's your name, pretty lady, and where you come from? One of those Elves from Imladris?" He glanced at her sword. "We get a lot of soldiers and adventurers from Mordagnir's Gryphon Battalion here, looking for Rangers to team up with or hear some news from. A popular meeting place, this inn is."

Edward smirked, shaking his head, uttering, "This guy," when Astaro came swaggering toward the bar. The ringing sound of his silver spurs jingled musically as he drew closer with a broad smile.

"Evenin', Eddy!" Astaro cried happily in Westron, the common speech. The Elf was tall and strong and short of dark hair. You couldn't tell he was of the Elder kindred at first glance. He passed easily for an exceedingly handsome cleanshaven man because of the Combe Valley black wrangler hat he always wore and the black leather dustercoat. The only weapon he carried was an axe and Edward knew the Elf could use it deadly well. "I'd like a berry brandy of Linyamaril, barkeep," said Astaro warmly, shaking the veteran forester's hand manfully before taking a seat next to the blonde swordswoman. When he noticed he was sitting beside two Elves, he blanched, losing his mirth in an instant.

"Bring any Moles with you, Astaro?" wondered Edward, walking away to retrive the brandy imported from Rivendell which stood with other fine liquors. When he returned to the bar, Astaro had doffed his hat and began fanning himself with it, starting to sweat as he figeted uncomfortably next to the golden-haired fighter. "Oh. Moles. I forgot I wasn't supposed to say that word."

"We need to do something about your memory, mate," Astaro replied icily, suddenly irate and flexing the fingers of his black glove. Astaro's elven people were followers of Maeglin, an elvish prince responsible for the fall of an elven city named Gondolin in the First Age. Astaro had told him the story after one High Elf descendant tried to kill him in the inn a few years back. Astaro hadn't lived during that time but he carried the stigma of Mole survivors and their scions living on Tol Noldarë, a Wethrin Isle west of Lindon. Many Moles hadn't survived Gondolin but those who did were rallied by Hatholdir Narroval. The Mole had been a minor noble and gifted matallurgist in the city who was close to Maeglin. He survived a fall, took the sword and secret token of Morgoth's from the prince's burning corpse, and gathered the Moles in hiding. Their cavern abode in the Wethrin Mountains became an island in the diasterous wake of the War of Wrath. Hatholdir did mining there and on the mainland and sold the blades of his Moles to the Elven League as reinforcements. Aigronding was that desperate for help, Edward guessed, even those who tried to kill him once. They were a necessary evil, the grimmest of warriors if legend was to be true and Edward was certain it was after having seen how brutal Astaro fought and that Erfaron bloke he hung around with was even scarier.

Edward set down his glass, meeting Astaro's gimlet stare with a look just as fierce, silently reminding him what he was capable of.

"I just walk in and I'm public enemy number one," muttered the Mole under his breath though audible enough to be heard before he took a deep swallow of his drink. "This is excellent brandy," Astaro remarked, looking at his brooding reflection in the liquid. "I first had it at Linyamaril," he added, referencing the manor of Aigronding in Rivendell. Perhaps he hoped to dispel any notion that he was an enemy.

"Whatcha' doing here, Astaro?" Edward asked through an exasperated sigh and smiled wanly yet fondly at the misfortunate but good-hearted Elf. He was a rough Elf, all Moles were, but his mother had raised him decently it seemed. Astaro reminded him of those roguish heart-throbs with intriguing dimension Miranda Peppermint enjoyed writing about in her historical romances; Amy read them and waxed lyrical about those books all the time.

"Prospecting and giving people a hard time, what else?" [/i]Astaro drawled and took another lasting sip of his brandy.

[Anárië]

It was cozy in the inn, especially this room, and Anárië felt her muscles loosening once she ascertained that there was no unsavoury character about to jump straight at her. When you didn't count your years anymore you got used to certain types of behaviour, and this was one of them, she supposed. Luckily for her she didn't anticipate anyone trying to wake her in the morning, so there was no danger of her reacting badly to that. Time on the roads, especially in the wild, made anyone wary, and you didn't just drop all that in favour of becoming the way any regular citizen of such a village as Bree would be on your average day or night. The elleth could simply be thankful that she had gotten so far as she had.

At the greeting from the other Elf in the room, however, Anárië's face brightened and she turned easily towards Sidra, extending her hands. 'Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo, Sidra. Mae govannen. (Well met) I am Anárië.' The last she added in the Common Tongue for others to be able to understand her as well, and to ensure everyone caught her name. It was a bother needing to introduce yourself over and over again. She smiled at the Hobbit as well. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Underwood." Taking another of the empty seats at the bar, the elleth turned her attention to the barkeep as he spoke.

"Tis true that I like a good wine, but Bree ale is known throughout this region, and you can hardly get it anywhere else," she answered him with some amusement, "And I do believe I shall take Lady Sidra's excellent advice about your bread, if you would be so kind." She was pulling the gloves from her fingers when the other Elf walked in, even as the barkeep continued talking. "As you say, good sir, this inn is a meeting place for all sorts." There were too many names being thrown about, too much information, and even if there weren't that many pairs of ears to listen, Anárië was going to give them as little as she possibly could. It was no one's business who was going where and what other Elves were on the loose, or wandering, not to mention what their beverage of choice was. Next she knew someone would claim they knew the location of the Golden Wood, and how to enter it! Which would be a lie, of course, from anyone but an Elf of the Wood, but still.

Her head turned to the newcomer and she dipped it in greeting, catching the reference that he was purportedly a survivor of Gondolin - but she hadn't gotten to where she was by bandying about information about herself, so left it at that, and refocused on Sidra again. "Forgive me, I am being incredibly rude," she apologized first and foremost, "but yes, I have travelled far, and will travel further tomorrow, weather permitting. The Valar know spring in these lanes is as wet as it comes, but hopefully it might hold off for a day or so. I'm making my way towards the Misty Mountains; what of you? You seem far afield, and far from home as well." She took a sip of the Pale Archet and sighed at the light citrus taste. The reference to brandy, however, made her chuckle lightly. "Aye, fine brandy is difficult to come by these days, unless you know where to look."

[SidraLockel Eltoran]

Sidra contemplated how she should answer Edward. It was always nice to find a friendly barkeep…but barkeeps were known to talk a lot, to lots of people, and she’d rather not have everyone who passed through Bree know her story. “Elves do have beautiful singing voices.” She replied to Edward, her dark eyes regarding him thoughtfully. “Though I myself do not sing much.”

Sidra’s attention was drawn away from her current companions once more as a newcomer (Astaro) swaggered over to the bar. Her graceful brow rose slightly at the dark haired Elf’s reaction to those sitting at the bar. She took another sip of her ale, gazing at him from beneath her dark lashes. What strange garb he wears. She mused to herself. Perhaps she was just too used to dressing as the Rangers do, and wasn’t up on the latest trends. He appeared to be an Elf…though she had never seen an Elf wear his hair that short willingly. Plus, he carried an axe…not your typical Elven weapon. He seemed to be good friends with Edward. Sidra tried not to eavesdrop too much on their conversation.

Instead she turned her attention back to Anárië, clasping her hand in greeting. “No need to ask for forgiveness, Anárië.” She said, with another smile. “There are many things happening that draw one’s attention away. I hope the weather holds out for your travel. Are you heading to Rivendell or past the Misty Mountains?” She pulled her bowl of stew towards herself again and ate a spoonful. It was warm and savory, and hit the spot. “I am rather far from home.” She confessed, “Though I find am blessed to have friends in many places. I’m a Galadhrim, hard as that might before people to believe.” She said with a chuckle, motioning to her ebony hair.

Turning back to Fallon, she said “I’m sorry, I believe you were about to say something, before the ellon entered.”

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

NPC: Fallon Underwood

The common room of the Inn feels suddenly crowded and claustrophobic. Three large mugs of the Pony’s finest have given the hobbit’s head a warm glow; the sudden greeting by Edward, the barkeep and the general clamour in the room make it chime like a bell. The portly hobbit, Fallon to those in the Inn, suddenly sees the truth in a tale he’d often scoffed at.

How could someone with such a secret – one as perilous as carrying the Ring of the Enemy – be so foolish?

Well, he sees the truth in it now! Of course his furtive mission is in no way as important as the one carried out by the esteemed Frodo Baggins - it concerns the matters of three or four people not the entire world – but to mess it up would be mortifying.

A bite to eat… that’s what I need, something to steady my tum and stiffen my resolve, he thinks, dabbing absently at his forehead with his neckerchief.

But of course his purse is all but empty: the Shire coins received as change in Michel Delving have been squandered on ale; and only two knuckles of the silver ingot (travelling money, his erstwhile companion had called it) remain… Not enough surely for a long journey East?

”Excuse me,” he says, hopping down from his stool and offering a quick bow to Sidra and Anárië. “I think I need a touch of evening air…”

With that the hobbit wobbles unsteadily towards the door. He stumbles into the street and gulps in long draughts of cool air, before tottering on across the cobbles to the stables. There is no sign of Nob, and Bob does not respond to Fallon's reedy call.

“Bother it!” he mutters, “What have they done with my pony?”

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

BUMP

NPC: Fallon Underwood

Fallon stands in the deep shadows without the stable-block for what seems like an eternity. He guesses it now close to midnight, and still there’s been no sign of Bob or Nob. Across the street warm light and laughter spill from the Prancing Pony; the prospect of a warm meal and bed almost drive him back through the inn’s doors. Somehow the hobbit manages not to surrender to the easier way. A new day might not bring new counsel, he reasons. And besides his steed, faithful Stew-pony, seems to have been pinched.

He toys awhile with heading back to the Pony anyway, waking Barliman Butterbur and demanding compensation for his stolen mount. But, just as his woolly feet begin to betray him, he notices something he can turn to his advantage. A wain heavily laden with cargo, drawn by six large horses, creaks down the road over by the East Gate.

The hobbit, perhaps for the first time in his wandering years, acts on impulse.

Drawing in a deep breath he lowers his head and trots down the road. As he slips by the shuttered windows of the grocer’s store he is going at a fair old clip. The wain draws closer; close enough for him to see markings on the barrels and bundles (Product of Bree); close enough for him to hear the teamster call a loud farewell to the gatekeeper.

Gates! Drat, they're swinging closed!

Fallon’s canter turns into a full-blown sprint. Through the gateway he whizzes, and on up the highway as it climbs Bree-hill. Just when it looks like he will not make it, just as the teamster gives a loud whistle and crack of his whip, Fallon leaps for the rear of the wain. He catches hold of a trailing rope, and, with surprising agility for one so plump, shimmies up it like a toy monkey on a stick.

“Let it be going the right way!” he puffs, as he scrambles atop the wagon’s cargo. He falls on his back, wiggles his toes and watches the lights of Bree disappear into the night.

[Tharmáras]

"Aye, Miss Elf, we have good ale here in Bree but we have splendid wine as well," Edward assured the blonde, Anárië. "We have the Flutterbye Vineyards in Combe Valley. If you fancy a taste, I have a lovely sweet red for you to try."

Edward was amazed when Sidra told him she couldn't sing much. "Blimey, I have so many misconceptions about Elvenfolk it seems!"Edward exclaimed, passing a malty King Henry to a thirsty Dwarf. "The way your lot carry on in stories, singing every five seconds, I've figured every Elf was as merry."

He chuckled, winking at them, hoping they knew he was making lighthearted fun. "Do you need a place to stay for the night or a while?" Edward asked the Elves. "Anárië mentioned she would be underway in the morning. Will you be staying longer, Sidra? We have many suites with a lovely view of the Road." Edward smiled as the halfling, Fallon left. "Take care of yourself, friend!" Edward shouted, raising his voice above the applause for Lauren's performance. "There's been woodcutters from Combe vanishing in the Chetwood over the last few weeks!"

[Ercassie]

Uhta Halsad

The evening’s entertainment had been worth the walk. The bald man tapped one foot with unrestrained abandon along to the young girl (Lauren)’s jig, spading food into his mouth with such a speed, it seemed that his foot was the pump to an effective assembly line. A chicken was firm within the man’s strong hand, clutched as though it were a comely barmaid’s behind, even as a fork stabbed slabs of beef, dunked heartily in the stew and still dripping down his other wrist. It was fortunate that his arms were stripped, liberating large biceps, that the sweat and the streaks of grease glistened under the inn’s light.

“Pie” he asked, with an earnest expression catching the musician’s eye as she ended her tune. “More pie,” he clarified, for it would not have been the first he had tried tonight, intending it would seem to work through the entire menu. The table before him was set for a banquet though he dined alone, and not a single plate yet had been finished or ignored. He was whetting his tastebuds. All of them. Waving his poultry, fresh with bite marks where he’d gnawed of it voraciously, he called after her. “And Hill ale !" he confessed, a fifth now emptied tankard which bounced on the table top as he threw down his fork and a particularly heavy hand.

Returned to his feast, the large man ducked his head at anyone who so much as raised him one eyebrow. He was having an incredibly good time, and did not care to mind himself. For he could very well, mind himself if the need should arise. Drowning doorsteps of hard bread into various dishes about him, Uhta smacked his lips. This was his first time in the Prancing Pony, but by sure he determined that it would not be the last. The men and hobbits were very accommodating, despite the astounded looks which had been thrown his way at quite how much he was fitting into his heft. But Uhta’s greatest weapon was himself, and his greatest love was to worship that self with all the wonders life had to offer. His immense height and bulk allowed that few things were beyond his mere taking as he pleased. Still he was a jovial enough fellow, except when crossed.

There were a lot of Elves in the inn tonight, he could not help but notice. And that barkeep had an awful lot to say for himself. Uhta had given Edward nothing but eager instruction for a hot bath and a large bed. He might have asked for something to warm that bed, but such slips of the tongue had caused him to be kicked out of the Forsaken Inn. He was far from home here, but assuredly making himself quite at home.

[Tharmáras]

"Just remembered I was holding a letter for you, Astaro," Edward informed the young Mole, snapping his fingers.

"It would behoove you to hand me it," Astaro politely suggested in an icy drawling voice. He rolled his hazel eyes when Edward spent several minutes shuffling through two dozen envelopes to find the missive. He tried to mask his intrigue with an air of irreverence. No one knew he was coming besidesErfaron . He was in in the neighborhood and had recently sent a letter to him, alerting the younger Elf - or was it was warning? Astaro still wasn't sure - that he'd find him eventually in Eriador. Erfaron had an inkling that the Mole prospector would be spending some time on the mainland when he left Tol Noldarë a short while ago.


"Sorry about that," Edward apologized and smirked as he tossed the Elf an envelope of cheap brown paper. "When it rains, it pours as we say in Bree, you know."

Astaro removed a badly folded piece of parchment from the envelope and laughed, recognizing the writing before he even began reading the thing. It was indeed from Erfaron! His laughter grew louder, finishing it a second time. Through the fond barrage of customary insults which many a Mole was accustomed to using at personal greetings or by the written word, Astaro determined that the older Elf was still in the vicinity and had the Mole sentry, Ospiel, with him. In the previous letter, half of which he he declared his revulsion of Erfaron's pungent odor, Astaro alluded to the assignment Hatholdir had charged him with and hinted at strange happenings in the region.

Astaro rang a large hand-bell on the bar to seize Edward's attention from taking several orders at once. Although it was only civil (For normal people) to wait until Edward had a free moment, Astaro (having learned thousands of ways to irritate people from Hatholdir and Erfaron, rejecting ettiquette and protocol most readily) restrained a lopsided grin as he rapidly tapped the bell until Edward glared at the Mole. "Quill, ink, and parchment, please."

When he was provided with these, Astaro began writing Erfaron a reply back. Suddenly he smelled about him a reek not unlike a barnyard as if a paddock of swine had been loosed allowing its vermin to run rampant inside the Pony. Trying in vain to rid the unpleasant stench from his nostrils with vigorous waving of his black hat, Astaro turned toward Erfaron and Ospiel.

*

"The Bree-land Gazette!" cried the scrawny teenage town crier from his soapbox on Cherrytree Lane, not far from the Pony. With only a few minutes left until his shift ended on the top of the hour, the boy in white breeches and red coat waved the brass bell high with his left hand and lifted high a copy of The Bree-land Gazette with his right. He was eager to get home to his Mama's hot supper after a long day of saying the same repetitive declaration.

"I'll buy a copy, lad."


The little newsie looked into the shadows of Hemlock Avenue and saw a tall broad-shouldered man emerge from the darkness, lighting a carved rosewood pipe. His illuminated cleanshaven face was rugged and weary but his easy smile was both handsome and charming.

"Are you an out-of-towner, mister?" asked the hawker with a low amazed voice. The man spoke with a richly pleasant accent. His skin was olive not white and his thick hair was black as South Downs coal.

The man said nothing for a moment, smoking the fragrant tobacco of Goodfellow Blue Label in deep thought, obviously none too comfortable with revealing his origins nor his identity but he did finally speak, kneeling to be equal height with the child. "I hail from from burning arid plains where camels trod and lush forests where behemoths walk, son," he uttered and lifted his sad weathered face toward the spangled heavens. "Where I come from, boy, the stars are strange..." He clamped the pipe between his teeth, taking the Gazette with one hand and fishing in his belt's pouch for coins with the other. "These are for the paper." He gave the boy four silver pennies.

"Mister, that's too much!" the child protested hotly but the man chuckled, mussing the boy's disheveled brown hair as he stood up.

"I have many more. Keep them. For you and your mother." He walked away with a brisk step, crossing the street to enter the Pony behind two chattering Elves.

*

"I expected to find you where there was food, always thinking with your stomach, Uhta," Kfir remarked with a subtle air of passive-aggressive condemnation. "Always thinking with your stomach, my big friend," he added, taking a seat with Halsad at the bar as he unfurled a large napkin with a fluid snap of his wrist. "Don't eat this much. You're done. I truly pity the dear woman who's unfortunately doomed to clean your chamber pot." Kfir was mildly amused, watching the beautiful golden-haired lass (Lauren) attentively listening to Uhta's request for double pie. She was not phased by the display of the brute's great biceps. Her ginger friend (Amelia) gazed at Uhta's bulky frame with such rapt attention however that she nearly walked into a wall with her tray laden with jars of foaming beer. "Don't think about it," Kfir warned Uhta, observing the leatherbound menu. "You'll crush her. The redhead is a twig."

"Hey, sugar!" Lauren hailed Uhta sunnily. The joyous attractive blonde hastened out of the kitchen with two pies - one of apple and the other peach. Warm and juicy. "You're lucky, Mister! These are the last fruit pies we've got tonight. Mince is left."

"I think he's had enough, sweetling," Kfir remarked, stifling a groan.

"Aw, he's a strapping man! Leave him alone." She slapped Kfir's hand lightly with a charming grin and tore the cap off of a bottle of Brown ale with a yelling Troll opener mounted on the wall behind the bar. "If you gotta bust his arse from something, let it be his manners or lack thereof." She giggled then patted Uhta's muscled arm much to the visible dismay of the ginger. "You should try our breakfast special!" winsome Lauren suggested, talking with one hand while the other rested on her hip. "On Highdays we serve the whole morning selection."

"Oh, dear," Kfir muttered, looking at the pouch of stolen money. He couldn't kill people every day.

"We've got pancakes in small mountains on the back griddle, sir," Lauren encouraged Uhta. She blew him a kiss. "I'll get our widest saucer for you." She seized a bottle of caramel sauce and set it before him with an appealing smile of her soft glistening pink lips and made a beeline to the kitchen, telling her irate redheaded friend to hurry up with those drinks. She stole an eager glance at the handsome Elf in black with the cattleman hat before she vanished.

Kfir presented Uhta with a huge rose-gold ring embellished with glinting rubies. "Don't ask me where I found this but there's more if you behave," Kfir promised the colossal man, confident it would fit one of Uhta's strong meaty fingers. Kfir snorted a laugh. One thing was certain. When the Umbarians claimed the Bree-land for their own, Uhta would want to rule the Hill from the Pony. It would be his castle. He was home, clearly.

Edward promised Uhta his largest bed and a hot bath following the meal then took Kfir's order for a refreshing sweet glass of Queen Ann red wine. Kfir inspected the Gazette he purchased from the hawker outside as he sipped. Flipping pages beyond short stories, poetry, bogus farmer predictions forecasting weather, villager interviews, proverbs, and other useless information to him until he came to the page of news. He allowed himself to smugly grin, reading about the mystery of the vanished woodcutters. Sometimes what you're looking for is hidden in plain sight.

[Ercassie]

The meaty cobra of a tattooed arm shielded the feast as Kfir sat himself down. One eye daring his associate to intervene, Uhta rearranged his plates, levelling the contents of some, by piling up others. To make space, staking his territory. “There are things,” he admitted, in lieu of greeting, “besides my stomach, that could stand to be satisfied.” As Lauren unloaded another platter of delicacies, her keen customer patted the newly cleared table surface, as though he expected her to spring up there herself, or lay down yet another serving, or both; he could not have cared which. “Already she talks about breakfast,” the vast bald head rocked with mirth. “When first I will need bed ..”

The emergence of a shiny ring in Kfir’s grasp stole Uhta’s attention, utterly, and the Bree girl was allowed to return to her duties without further harassment. The Umbarian held out one hand, generously dressed in crumbs, needing no words to make his demand. Strong fingers simply beckoned for the prize to be handed over, tried on, and admired, before the man returned to his food. “Last ones,” he shrugged, with the deft stab of a knife into the closest pie. Whether Uhta was agreeing to order no more, or simply explaining that there was no more the servers could find in their kitchens, was anybody’s guess. As the elder guest settled back to read his newspaper, the younger tore a broad leaf from the back page, and wiped his hands with it. Crushing the ruined remnants into a ball, he pitched it over at the bar. But something else had already caught Astaro (at least) ‘s attention.


It was no small wonder that the young Mole had turned to see. Though it might have been wiser to avert an astounded gaze. The latest arrivals to the inn were a sight to make jaws drop, conversation stop. Silver hair, plastered fast with both mud and .. worse .., was cemented slick about the skull mask of Erfaron’s pale face. Ospiel bore her own mane, the night sky to match his veil of starlight, but now both stood obscured by a blanket of filth. Hawk-sharp features were made all the more pronounced by each surprising, sodden state. Travel-stained, or so one might hope, garb hung heavy like the rain clouds which might have explained all. Still there was no hint of storm to be glimpsed through the door, which crept to a close, warily behind them.

Uhta dropped a heavy hand onto Kfir’s newspaper, which crumpled as consequence. But got no further. Cold blue eyes were already raised toward the pair of Men, small animation in a frame of cadaverous countenance. Then shifted away, apparently unthreatened. The two Elves exchanged a glance which expressed a silent, begrudging sigh, and dropped a series of bloodied weapons upon the bar. If it was a gesture to declare themselves unarmed, then the size, state and quantity of the tools bred little reassurance.

“What is good here ?” the She-Elf found her tongue, clearly expecting to be accommodated, irrespective of her attire. A derisive grunt from her companion suggested there was naught good, save for the small contentment he gained; when seizing up Astaro’s hat, sailing it clear across the room, and only then relaxed. As much as one could, without taking a seat.

[Sur Vanar Utírieste]

Philomena Brooks and Hazel Cooper
sitting at a table in the common-room

Philomena flicked a dingy silver coin on the surface of her table, watching it twirl like a child's spinning top toy before smacking her right hand down on it. She did so repeatedly, neglecting to drink the pint of dark malty beer in her left hand. Its foam had long-since subsided, but Philomena did not care, she had not come to The Pony today to sate her thirst.

“You certainly know how to keep someone waiting,” she grumbled, as a tall lithesome woman took a seat in the opposite chair. Hazel Cooper, the secretary of the Mayor, hung the leather strap of her jeweled purse over the back of her wooden seat and brought her flawless hands together on the table. Her fingers were long and beautiful, her nails had been coated in a rich plum-colored lacquer. She wore a little black dress with a low and immodest décolletage. Its slit rose high above the level of her thighs, not only revealing almost the entirety of her shapely legs but also failing to leave much to the imagination.

Hazel tossed her glossy raven-black hair over her shoulders as the men in the common-room gawked. “A gift from Oliver I imagine?” asked Philomena, pointing a finger at the Haradrim gold-plated earrings swinging from Hazel’s ears. “Perhaps,” she said coolly, raising a hand at a passing server and requesting a glass of Dorwinion wine.

Philomena rolled her eyes. Hazel did not hide the fact that she was a mistress, if anything, you could say she flaunted it proudly. “You know why I asked you here,” went on to say Philomena, ”so what is your answer?”

A glass of deep, red alcohol was placed before Hazel. She plucked it carefully and raised it to her pouty, red-painted lips. Only after she had enjoyed a full sip did Hazel place the wine down and answer the editor-in-chief’s question. “I won’t be testifying against your father,” she said.

“Oh come on, do you really think Oliver is going to keep you around forever?” replied Philomena, talking down to the secretary, “He will replace you the minute he finds someone younger and more beautiful.”

Hazel smirked. “Do you think I’m that ignorant kid?” she said, it was her turn now to patronize Philomena. “I have been benefiting from Oliver since the first day we started seeing one another, and rest assured, by the time he is done with me I would have acquired enough to live out the rest of my days in luxury.”

Hazel finished her Dorwinion and left a gold coin on the table beside the empty glass. “I know you’re out for blood kid, but you can’t bring down Oliver,” she said casually, rising from her seat and strapping her purse over one of her bony shoulders, “If you’re that desperate to get back at daddy for trying to kill you, why not just go to the Hill Watch?”

“Right,” scoffed Philomena, “like I’m going to ask Vincent Snapdragon and his boys for help.”

Hazel shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said, beginning to walk away before pausing and turning to Philomena one last time. “Oh,” added Hazel, “ and if you even think about writing another article in your Hill Journal about me, I’ll make sure whatever goons Oliver sends after you this time actually finish the job.”

Philomena snickered, watching Hazel strut snobbishly out of The Pony. She downed her pint of Old Hill and pitched her silver coin at the head of Barliman Butterbur.

“Hey Fatty!” she yelled, “how ‘bout another round?”

[Tharmáras]

GM Non-IC Update. Changes to the OP, instituting new rules regarding posting content, have been made 06/15/21. Everything posted before this announcement is not considered (nor will it ever be considered) a breach of thread guidelines.