-I don't own any of the characters which might be found between the pages
of Tolkein's delightful novel, much as I'd love to own Nob. I also wouldn't
recommend reading this fic if you have a well-developed sense of humour, as
I thrive upon innuendo. You have been warned.-
Bree, a town filled with "interesting" characters, a good inn and an abundance of pipe weed.
"When a man is tired of Bree," Barliman Butterbur had always said, "he is tired of life." Nob had heard Butterbur say that so many times, and had come to the conclusion that therefore he, Nob, must be tired of life. He was fed up with being a general skivvy at the Prancing Pony. He was tired of seeing endless faces coming and going, the inn being a stopover before they continued with their great adventures.
Nob wanted a great adventure.
He had heard such great stories, rumours of all sorts. That a hobbit not too different from himself had vanquished the Dark Lord. That tale seemed just a little too tall. Taller than the gossip that the miserable bloke who had sat, scowling, in the corner a few years ago, had turned out to be a King.
There was a world outside Bree, Nob knew that. Travellers told that it was both terrifying and wonderful. Nob feared nothing but- his fear was irrational. Ridiculous, maybe. But very real it was.
He could have got married and escaped had it not been for this fear. Alas, he was trapped.
Nob was snapped from his reverie by the sound of vomiting. This happened frequently in the Prancing Pony; there was always someone who couldn't take his ale. The hobbits were the worst; small stomachs, but this time it was a Man. A very drunk Man.
Having been through this on an almost nightly basis, Nob knew the drill. Get the drunkard to the bedroom which was set aside for this purpose. The smallest room in the inn, with the scratchiest, least comfortable bed. Though compared to Nob's quarters, "The Puke Room" was veritably palatial. Nob's little room didn't smell half as bad as the Puke Room, which was only aired occasionally, and the floor mopped if there was a mess.
And once the drunk had been installed in the Puke Room, Nob had to clean up the vomit and return to his other duties.
Men were always more difficult for Nob to deal with than hobbits. Nob could quite comfortably support a hobbit in the journey to the Puke Room, but Men were rather a lot larger. Once Nob had thought he may have been escorting an Elf, but he had stopped this fancy by reminding himself that an Elf would never lose composure like that, and probably never come into an inn like the Prancing Pony in the first place.
"Come on, mister," Nob said, forcing brightness into his tone, though he felt anything but. The man groaned. "I've got a nice room for you to sleep in." This wasn't going too well, Nob thought. The man was slumped forward, his head in his hands, most likely going to throw up again, evidently drunk. This called for the kind approach. "Can you stand up?" No response. "Can you hear me?" No response.
Time for minor violence to be called into play. A poke to the ribs bought the man back into the realms of the living, and launched into incoherent rambling. "Up we get," Nob said in the same voice his mother had used when he had refused his bath as a child.
It took a very long time to get the man upstairs, lying down, and informed where the basin was if any more alcohol decided to work its way up. And then there was the unenviable task of cleaning up the floor by the table.
All in all it was a horribly long night. It always was at the Prancing Pony. Too much ale spelled a wide range of problems. The night was not complete without at least one fight. Tonight's involved a pair of men who, apparently, had both been "poking" the same woman. The outcome of this fight was their mutual agreement that in fact it was the woman who was at fault, and soon they were swearing vows of eternal brotherhood, and Nob was concerned that they might join the writhing couple in a corner who Butterbur, rather than stopping, was watching avidly.
Bree, a town filled with "interesting" characters, a good inn and an abundance of pipe weed.
"When a man is tired of Bree," Barliman Butterbur had always said, "he is tired of life." Nob had heard Butterbur say that so many times, and had come to the conclusion that therefore he, Nob, must be tired of life. He was fed up with being a general skivvy at the Prancing Pony. He was tired of seeing endless faces coming and going, the inn being a stopover before they continued with their great adventures.
Nob wanted a great adventure.
He had heard such great stories, rumours of all sorts. That a hobbit not too different from himself had vanquished the Dark Lord. That tale seemed just a little too tall. Taller than the gossip that the miserable bloke who had sat, scowling, in the corner a few years ago, had turned out to be a King.
There was a world outside Bree, Nob knew that. Travellers told that it was both terrifying and wonderful. Nob feared nothing but- his fear was irrational. Ridiculous, maybe. But very real it was.
He could have got married and escaped had it not been for this fear. Alas, he was trapped.
Nob was snapped from his reverie by the sound of vomiting. This happened frequently in the Prancing Pony; there was always someone who couldn't take his ale. The hobbits were the worst; small stomachs, but this time it was a Man. A very drunk Man.
Having been through this on an almost nightly basis, Nob knew the drill. Get the drunkard to the bedroom which was set aside for this purpose. The smallest room in the inn, with the scratchiest, least comfortable bed. Though compared to Nob's quarters, "The Puke Room" was veritably palatial. Nob's little room didn't smell half as bad as the Puke Room, which was only aired occasionally, and the floor mopped if there was a mess.
And once the drunk had been installed in the Puke Room, Nob had to clean up the vomit and return to his other duties.
Men were always more difficult for Nob to deal with than hobbits. Nob could quite comfortably support a hobbit in the journey to the Puke Room, but Men were rather a lot larger. Once Nob had thought he may have been escorting an Elf, but he had stopped this fancy by reminding himself that an Elf would never lose composure like that, and probably never come into an inn like the Prancing Pony in the first place.
"Come on, mister," Nob said, forcing brightness into his tone, though he felt anything but. The man groaned. "I've got a nice room for you to sleep in." This wasn't going too well, Nob thought. The man was slumped forward, his head in his hands, most likely going to throw up again, evidently drunk. This called for the kind approach. "Can you stand up?" No response. "Can you hear me?" No response.
Time for minor violence to be called into play. A poke to the ribs bought the man back into the realms of the living, and launched into incoherent rambling. "Up we get," Nob said in the same voice his mother had used when he had refused his bath as a child.
It took a very long time to get the man upstairs, lying down, and informed where the basin was if any more alcohol decided to work its way up. And then there was the unenviable task of cleaning up the floor by the table.
All in all it was a horribly long night. It always was at the Prancing Pony. Too much ale spelled a wide range of problems. The night was not complete without at least one fight. Tonight's involved a pair of men who, apparently, had both been "poking" the same woman. The outcome of this fight was their mutual agreement that in fact it was the woman who was at fault, and soon they were swearing vows of eternal brotherhood, and Nob was concerned that they might join the writhing couple in a corner who Butterbur, rather than stopping, was watching avidly.