A/N: Well, as expected, Barliman Butterbur puts in his late appearance, though I offer no promises on the elf. I don't write the latter enough to know what to expect from him, to be honest... (Morgoth, no, they're not my characters!)
A cloaked figure entered the tavern, giving the inn's proprietor a slight nod. "The usual," it said in a husky voice.
Barliman Butterbur nodded, biting back a sigh. This Dunadan was known for sitting for hours in the corner, nursing the same glass of weak ale for half the night. At least his formidable presence tended to discourage fights from breaking out. Butterbur reasoned that this free bouncer was generally worth the loss of income that came from seating Strider and not a steadier drinker. "Will any of your… friends be joining you?" the innkeeper asked.
It was not that he minded the rangers, or the old greybeard who occasionally sat amongst them. The old man, especially, could be good for an amusing story when the winter winds blew a little too hard or a kind word when business was getting chaotic. But the rangers' tabs… If they weren't so good at keeping the peace, Barilman would have to throw the whole lot of them out of his inn. They promised to make good on their debts, of course, but there was only so much one could do with rabbit skins.
"Perhaps" was all the answer Strider was willing to give. At least the man paid off his own debts, and occasionally his friends', when he had the extra money for it…
"Here you are, then." Barliman set down the mug, releasing it once Strider produced a coin. Good Gondorian copper, that. Barliman wasn't sure that he wanted to know where the Dunadan had gotten it from.
Nob rushed over to the bar, his clothes and curly hair in even more disarray than usual. "The stables, Mr. Butterbur! Better come quick!"
Barliman glanced across the common room, considering the bored and boisterous customers with equal apprehension. Across from him, the ranger sighed, closing his eyes before touching the scabbard on his back. "Might I be of assistance, Nob?" Strider asked.
"Just hurry!" The hobbit dashed back out, the Dunadan hot at his heels. The watered-down ale had been left at the bar. Very carefully, Barilman picked it up and placed the coin back beneath it, wiping around it with a clean cloth.
They returned some half an hour later, the hobbit wiping away sweat and chattering with his cousins; the man sheathing what looked to be a long-hilted dagger. It was rather comical, the way he carried such a small blade in so big a scabbard. Barliman supposed it was part of the whole ranger mystique, and quite an affordable method to scare off would-be highwaymen, on the side.
Strider picked up his ale – now rather flat – and took a long, deep sip. Barliman waited until he had set the glass back down before pretending to notice the coin. "Another one, then, sir?"
"Oh, let him have one on the house, Butterbur! He was brilliant out there!" Nob spoke up.
The innkeeper shrugged. "Well, if Nob insists…" He pushed the coin back, and pulled out another glass. Beneath the bar, he poured it to the brim with his finest whiskey. And water, but then, you didn't let a ranger like Strider get drunk all in one go.