At the Sign of the Prancing Pony
Sevilodorf
Following the familiar Road, pale light behind drawn curtains drew him to pass through the door above which hung the sign of The Prancing Pony.
********
"That's the last of them, Mr. Butterbur," exclaimed Nob, gathering up a tray of tankards and crockery. "I'll just take these out to the kitchen and be on my way."
The innkeeper nodded absentmindedly as the cheery-looking hobbit called a good night and disappeared down the hall. Something had been nagging at the corner of his mind all evening, but he hadn't had a moment to sit and think on it what with all the folk looking to celebrate the Yule with a mug of beer or a tankard of ale.
Barliman Butterbur lowered his bulk into a chair near the wall and thoughtfully sipped the mug of beer he had drawn after showing the last of his customers to the door. Best beer he had ever brewed, if he did say so himself, though enough folks had said the same that he felt justified in his opinion. Matter of fact the brewings for the last two years had been exceptionally fine, ever since the return of the Rangers.
The thought of Rangers caused him to look over at the dark corner by the stairs. He half expected to see the shadowy form of a hooded man smoking a pipe. It was still hard to imagine that Strider with a gold cup and a crown. Why, the man had sat right here in this room.
The people of Bree had not yet decided to believe all the tales brought in by strangers, but there was no denying that there was a King now. Envoys had been sent proclaiming the King's ascension to the throne and his reclamation of all the lands to the extent of the ancient borders. Breefolk, wanting only to be left alone, were withholding their judgement on whether or not this was a good thing, but things had changed for the better. Business along the Greenway had increased steadily and the Rangers had driven out the ruffians who had taken up residence in the woods beyond Archet.
Turning events over slowly in his mind, Barliman thought on the latest bit of gossip to come out of the Shire. News that a company of High Elves had ridden away to the Havens along with old Gandalf and the two Mr. Bagginses. The elves' leaving was nothing new. They had been traveling to the Grey Havens for longer than Barliman had been alive. And, well, Gandalf was a wizard and there was no telling about his sort. But for two hobbits to go sailing off was beyond his comprehension. What was the world coming to?
A soft chuckle seemed to fill the room and Butterbur looked around with wide eyes. "Nob, is that you?" he called, but received no answer. Staring about he once again had the impression of a shadowy figure seated in the corner, though this one wore a tall pointed hat. Almost he called out to the figure, but it faded away, leaving behind the sharp smell of pipeweed.
Sevilodorf
Following the familiar Road, pale light behind drawn curtains drew him to pass through the door above which hung the sign of The Prancing Pony.
********
"That's the last of them, Mr. Butterbur," exclaimed Nob, gathering up a tray of tankards and crockery. "I'll just take these out to the kitchen and be on my way."
The innkeeper nodded absentmindedly as the cheery-looking hobbit called a good night and disappeared down the hall. Something had been nagging at the corner of his mind all evening, but he hadn't had a moment to sit and think on it what with all the folk looking to celebrate the Yule with a mug of beer or a tankard of ale.
Barliman Butterbur lowered his bulk into a chair near the wall and thoughtfully sipped the mug of beer he had drawn after showing the last of his customers to the door. Best beer he had ever brewed, if he did say so himself, though enough folks had said the same that he felt justified in his opinion. Matter of fact the brewings for the last two years had been exceptionally fine, ever since the return of the Rangers.
The thought of Rangers caused him to look over at the dark corner by the stairs. He half expected to see the shadowy form of a hooded man smoking a pipe. It was still hard to imagine that Strider with a gold cup and a crown. Why, the man had sat right here in this room.
The people of Bree had not yet decided to believe all the tales brought in by strangers, but there was no denying that there was a King now. Envoys had been sent proclaiming the King's ascension to the throne and his reclamation of all the lands to the extent of the ancient borders. Breefolk, wanting only to be left alone, were withholding their judgement on whether or not this was a good thing, but things had changed for the better. Business along the Greenway had increased steadily and the Rangers had driven out the ruffians who had taken up residence in the woods beyond Archet.
Turning events over slowly in his mind, Barliman thought on the latest bit of gossip to come out of the Shire. News that a company of High Elves had ridden away to the Havens along with old Gandalf and the two Mr. Bagginses. The elves' leaving was nothing new. They had been traveling to the Grey Havens for longer than Barliman had been alive. And, well, Gandalf was a wizard and there was no telling about his sort. But for two hobbits to go sailing off was beyond his comprehension. What was the world coming to?
A soft chuckle seemed to fill the room and Butterbur looked around with wide eyes. "Nob, is that you?" he called, but received no answer. Staring about he once again had the impression of a shadowy figure seated in the corner, though this one wore a tall pointed hat. Almost he called out to the figure, but it faded away, leaving behind the sharp smell of pipeweed.