The Turkey Turnpike Inn was the third inn the Hobits used as they travelled the great highway that traversed East to West across the West March. It was also to be the last. From there they would need to leave the well paved road and branch out into much wilder country.
The inn itself was one of a number of stone and brick built stopping places that had been built over the years to service the needs of the travellers intent upon their business, travelling between the harbours in the west and the human lands to the East in the Arnor, or South into the plains of Gondor. Therefore, although many were owned and run by Hobbits and a few had even become the nucleus for small Hobbit settlements and farms, all had been built to cater for their much larger guests.
The Turkey in particular, being three leagues from the nearest Hobbit settlement and run by a human, had little need to cater for those of short stature and ground loving nature.
All the same the landlord, Brock, welcomed his guests with much favour, especially after he caught a glimpse of Farimers mail cloak and insignia. "You just be sat in the private parlour," he recommended as the three portly Hobbits entered. "I'll be getin' Joe to settle your ponies. You'll be wanting food as well, so I'll need to find that. No doubt you'll not take so kindly to the rice that the Easterlings in the other bar be wanting, so I'll have to get the Missus to include tatties. Then a room. There's the small room on the first floor. I'll get Joe to include a third bed." He continued, his voice settling to a mumble as he spoke as much to himself as to the Hobbits as he listed what he needed to do.
Brock seemed to spend much of his time thinking aloud.
After they had eaten their fill the three travellers adjourned to the public saloon. As much to satisfy their own curiosity over some of the travellers that they had shared at least some of their road. There were a number of the Easterlings at the Turkey that night. Their small fur rimmed conical hats, sallow complexions and stocky build, formed a marked contrast to the darker burnt trader of Gondor that leaned against the bar, observing all and sundry.
The three hobbits themselves were ignored by the Easterlings. They were gathered around two tables, an air of restrained excitement over them, along with a rapid clacking.
Intrigued by the noise Farrimer squeezed between the stocky Easterlings. On the table lay hundreds of small tiles, some face up, some neatly arranged face down in walls, and the four players were slapping down tiles and picking new ones, seemingly as fast and as randomly as they could.
The shout, 'Dong-Jah', briefly brought a lull in the proceedings as tally sticks moved between the players. It allowed Farrimer a chance to pick up a number of the tiles to look at. Perhaps inch and a half long by an inch wide, with a wooden back and, he guessed, bone face. Each was carved in what looked like Elven Runes.
By this time the four players were starting to gather up all the tiles again and build new walls. As they did not seem to be interested in Farrimer, or the two tiles he had in his hand, he pocketed them and returned to the others sat in the corner of the bar, pint pots and pipes in hand.
From there he watched in puzzlement and alarm as the table fell into commotion.
A hooded figure slid up beside them. "It was not wise to take the pieces," he observed. "The Easterlings are very good with figures, but not with thieves. Leave them on the table and retire until they go tomorrow."
"Ah! That sounds good," Bilbo agreed as knives appeared. "Thank you, Mister?"
"Just a traveller that has a liking for Hobbits. Even the stupid ones."
Bilbo tried to peer up inside the hood, but could make nothing of the face inside, except that it was thin. The stranger turned away before he could make more of it.
As they fled gratefully for the door they saw Brock sally forth, broad sword poised threateningly. "We'll ha' none o' that here!" He bellowed. "You little beggars probably dropped the pieces on the floor. Now put them 'picks away afore I 'ave ya."
It was gone mid-morning the following day before the Hobbits ventured from their room and into the public room again. Brock was scraping the tables and his stable lad spreading new saw dust over the floor.
He greeted them cordially. "Morning, little masters. I 'opes you weren't put off too bad by them Easterns las' night? I saw youse heading for the door when they pulled knives. Don't wan' to take notice of 'em. Allays doin' that they is if they lose a piece, allays find 'em on the floor after. Why they need so many I'll never know. Now yous'll be wan'ing breakfast?"
"Yes, please!" They issued together, having almost given up getting to some sort of sensible statement from the landlord chunnering to himself.
"Now which way you be heading?" Brock asked quietly. "You came in from the East, so's I reckons youse be goin' West a ways?"
"Why?" Tom asked guardedly.
"Nutten bad, an' nowt to do with me. Just reckons you should avoid the Easterns an' a couple of the other rum 'uns. Doubt they'll do owt to the Kings man, but you never know with some of these foreigners."
"Well we're turning off soon," Farrimer laughed. "We're heading North a step. I'm told there is a good path?"
Brock beamed. "Ah, there be a good path over the bridge, mile down the road. Keep left an you'll be safe from the marsh. There be a couple of Hobbit farms, so you'll be good for shelter. Will you be wanting an early dinner before starting off?"
Thanking the landlord profusely, the Hobbits accepted.
