Chapter One-The Beacon
Red hair. Impossibly red hair weaving through the sea of ovens and tables towards me. It was not often a customer came back into the cooking area. That is why I worked here, cooking meals in a sleazy tavern for my room and board. It was the lack of personal contact that attracted me. I preferred to spend my days alone, reading and brooding over what I had lost. At night, as I slipped into the kitchen to begin my shift, I was faceless, just one of the many crowded into a tavern for sustenance and companionship. I could hide, out of sight behind a row of ovens, while I prepared countless soups and salads for the hungry throng that poured through the tavern's doors. The red-haired man was getting closer now, splotches of anger making themselves clearly evident on his fair elven complexion. He had a bowl of something in his hands, and he repeatedly looked down at it, as if checking to make sure the thing inside could not attack him while he was off-guard. He stopped in front of me and asked, while dramatically waving the bowl about " Did you make this salad?" He glared down at me from his considerable height. Hardly daring to speak, I nodded yes. I had to look up at his chest, for he was taller than I by at least two feet was. Even standing on a box, I hardly reached four foot nine. I was used to being taller than all of my family, but of course, that was back in the Shire. I snapped back to attention as the salad bowl made another swoop towards my face. Impatiently he questioned, "What does vegan mean to you?" He was pointing at something in his bowl. Ham chunks. In a small voice, I pointed out "If you couldn't eat them, you could've picked them out," but he didn't hear me. By then he was off on a rant about how the tavern was trying to poison it's patrons, and that if he were to die, then the manager would certainly be hearing from his family. "Actors," he concluded, "Actors have very delicate constitutions. One must take care of himself, especially on the opening night of his show. Which coincidentally, is The Music of the Ainur, which will open on the edge of town at eight o'clock tonight." Everyone had their eyes fixed on him. I blanched and shrunk away from all the eyes watching me. He dramatically thrust the salad bowl back into my hands and said "Remake this, wench!" I stared dumbly into the lettuce as he flounced back to his table. Fifteen minutes later, I was out of a job. The manager, a stout fellow with kind eyes, apologized, saying: " We can't have another disturbance like that. It's bad for business." He gave me until the next day to clean out my room. I was out all alone, without a job, money, food, or a place to stay all because some pompous twit of an elf wanted to promote a show. I don't know what came over me, but I found my legs carrying me towards his table. He was sitting there, laughing heartily with a group of elves, probably his troupe. " You should have seen that bumpkin's face!" he guffawed, and I realized with a jolt that he was talking about me. I tapped him on the shoulder, and after he turned around, I slapped him as hard as I could across his face. "Thanks to you and your arrogance, I am out of a job!" Noticing the look of terror on his face, I remembered one of the myths that the local people told about hobbits, the completely false claim that we were sorcerers, able to curse. " Master Elf," I said under my breath, "Two can play at your game." Adopting a somber tone, I began to chant the names of many long dead relatives, finally concluding with an ear piercing scream and " May my ancestors curse your theatre, your troupe, your show, your sets, your costumes, your dignity!" No one spoke. Satisfied, I walked away.
Red hair. Impossibly red hair weaving through the sea of ovens and tables towards me. It was not often a customer came back into the cooking area. That is why I worked here, cooking meals in a sleazy tavern for my room and board. It was the lack of personal contact that attracted me. I preferred to spend my days alone, reading and brooding over what I had lost. At night, as I slipped into the kitchen to begin my shift, I was faceless, just one of the many crowded into a tavern for sustenance and companionship. I could hide, out of sight behind a row of ovens, while I prepared countless soups and salads for the hungry throng that poured through the tavern's doors. The red-haired man was getting closer now, splotches of anger making themselves clearly evident on his fair elven complexion. He had a bowl of something in his hands, and he repeatedly looked down at it, as if checking to make sure the thing inside could not attack him while he was off-guard. He stopped in front of me and asked, while dramatically waving the bowl about " Did you make this salad?" He glared down at me from his considerable height. Hardly daring to speak, I nodded yes. I had to look up at his chest, for he was taller than I by at least two feet was. Even standing on a box, I hardly reached four foot nine. I was used to being taller than all of my family, but of course, that was back in the Shire. I snapped back to attention as the salad bowl made another swoop towards my face. Impatiently he questioned, "What does vegan mean to you?" He was pointing at something in his bowl. Ham chunks. In a small voice, I pointed out "If you couldn't eat them, you could've picked them out," but he didn't hear me. By then he was off on a rant about how the tavern was trying to poison it's patrons, and that if he were to die, then the manager would certainly be hearing from his family. "Actors," he concluded, "Actors have very delicate constitutions. One must take care of himself, especially on the opening night of his show. Which coincidentally, is The Music of the Ainur, which will open on the edge of town at eight o'clock tonight." Everyone had their eyes fixed on him. I blanched and shrunk away from all the eyes watching me. He dramatically thrust the salad bowl back into my hands and said "Remake this, wench!" I stared dumbly into the lettuce as he flounced back to his table. Fifteen minutes later, I was out of a job. The manager, a stout fellow with kind eyes, apologized, saying: " We can't have another disturbance like that. It's bad for business." He gave me until the next day to clean out my room. I was out all alone, without a job, money, food, or a place to stay all because some pompous twit of an elf wanted to promote a show. I don't know what came over me, but I found my legs carrying me towards his table. He was sitting there, laughing heartily with a group of elves, probably his troupe. " You should have seen that bumpkin's face!" he guffawed, and I realized with a jolt that he was talking about me. I tapped him on the shoulder, and after he turned around, I slapped him as hard as I could across his face. "Thanks to you and your arrogance, I am out of a job!" Noticing the look of terror on his face, I remembered one of the myths that the local people told about hobbits, the completely false claim that we were sorcerers, able to curse. " Master Elf," I said under my breath, "Two can play at your game." Adopting a somber tone, I began to chant the names of many long dead relatives, finally concluding with an ear piercing scream and " May my ancestors curse your theatre, your troupe, your show, your sets, your costumes, your dignity!" No one spoke. Satisfied, I walked away.