Chapter One: Welcome to the Forsaken Inn
Where's me sword, me sharp, sharp sword, It's sold for beer and pipeweed, There is no need for fighting, When the pub is so inviting, And selling beer and pipeweed Where's me pony, me fat, fat pony, He's sold for beer and pipeweed,There is no need to ride away,
When the pub is open everyday,
And selling beer and pipeweed.
Where's me wife, me loving, loving wife,
She's sold for beer and pipeweed,
There is no needed for my dear,
When the pub is oh so near.
And selling beer and pipeweed.
The soft glow of the candlelight played on the wrinkled and copper faces of the hobbit minstrels as they sand the tune. The song ended and the various travelers cheered wildly. They rocked back and forth on the wooden benches and clapped their tankards together in applause.
The red-faced hobbits took one last final bow and retreated down from their table. They leaned back in their chairs and took out their pipes. It was just another day at the Forsaken Inn.
Built from the strong wood of the Chetwood forest, the Forsaken Inn has stood a day's ride east of Bree since well into the Third Age, providing a safe haven for the travelers trekking the Great East Road. It was more rustic than the taverns in Bree, but it was still a sight for the sore eyes of a weary wanderer standing just out front.
A violent tempest was roared beyond the for walls of the pub. The peaceful night sky was hidden under a blanket of black storm clouds. Deafening cracks of thunder shook the earth and white shards of lightening penetrated the darkness, leaving only pure white or pure shadow before extinguishing. The gathering inside of the stalwart structure heeded it not. All their worries could be drowned out with the tip of a tankard of a puff of a pipe.
A bedraggled and way worn man entered the building, hooded and cloaked. He let fall his hood and revealed a tanned and scarred face. His black and unkept hair fell in his dark eyes, giving him an ill-favored look. The customers gave him a wide berth and shot suspicious glances his way. Far into the Hinterlands of Middle-Earth there are some that would consider him a lord among men. But here in the West he was a rogue warrior bereft of lordship, home, and kin.
A stranger in a strange land, fighting where his sword was needed most. Ignoring the prying eyes, the stranger made his way across the filthy floor and slumped in a chair.
Back beyond the bar, the employees took one look in the man's direction, and sent their youngest to him. Tarcrist grumbled something as he made he way over the where the stranger was sitting, staring into the fire.
He told Tarcrist to call him Nalilothon, though he doubted it was his real name. The name was too fair a man dressed a s a brigand. Many thought he was one of the Dunedain Rangers, but that was far from the truth. It was true that he had studied herblore and woodcraft, much like the Rangers. But he was lacking the glorious ancestry that they possessed. He was not a scion of a fallen Numenor nor a son of Eorl the Young.
His clothes were woven of all the colors that mimicked the wilderness. The cloth appeared to be dark brown if one would take a passing glance at the stranger. But if a closer look was taken, other colors would be revealed. It could become somber gray like the twilight, or black like a starless night sky, or dark green like the canopy of a dense forest.
A one-handed sword hung from his belt in a plain scabbard, stained and hardened by age and wilderness. One could only guess how many knives he had concealed in when all else failed. All his weapons were now concealed under the folds of his cloak but were still discernable.
Unwillingly, Tarcrist's legs took him over to the newcomer's chair. He approached Nalilothon with caution, suspicion in his eyes.
"Welcome to the Forsaken Inn!" he said, smiling in fake hospitality. This man made him feel nervous. "What can I do for you?"
"A tankard of ale and a bite to eat would be appreciated, my good man," said Nalilothon. He casually tossed a gold sovereign which Tarcrist caught clumsily. The thing was probably stolen, but the more money he got, the sooner he'd leave this place. With a nod of understanding, Tarcrist hurried along and disappeared through the doors to the kitchen.
First came the ale, followed by a place of cheese and bread. Nalilothon peered into the tankard at the frothy, golden liquid with a look of bliss. The burden of many cares fell off his shoulders as he tipped the tankard back and let the nectar touch his parched lips. He closed his eyes and let the warmth spread from his toes to his hair. A euphoria he had not experienced for many nights and long days. A soft and elated sigh left his lips as he stretched his legs upon the hearth.
He ate his food in silence, casually staring into the fire, watching the coals flare red under the covering of ash. Nalilothon wished to tarry longer here and rest, rest without the fear that he might not live to see the dawn. But he couldn't. Duty had to come before comfort. There were oaths and promises he had made that he intended to keep. Only a few hours could be spared and in that time her intended to sleep. Closing his eyes, he strayed into the blessed oblivion devoid of worry and burden.