Common Room
This large and rectangular room serves the purpose of Common Room for the
Prancing Pony. Red curtains drape down from large windows that look out to the
west and the Great East Road, which runs outside the Inn. There are long tables
with bench seats for the patrons in the center of the room. Nestled into the
wall is a large fireplace, with several bundles of wood piled next to it. The
red curtains that hang down from the windows are tied back, providing a good
view of the Road outside.
Breelands Weather
The mid afternoon summer air is very hot and dry around you. The murky sky is
overcast and dreary.
A flat white-grey sky radiates heat down across the little town of Bree, baking
the stone streets and driving the residents to find somewhere, anywhere cool.
Tis a boon for Barliman, for cool equals beer for many and even though it is
only midafternoon, the common room is much fuller than normal. A long table
surrounded by laughing semi-drunk hobbits; tall stools with lounging men who
lean against the thick timbers of the wall; nearly all with large fast-emptied
mugs clutched close.
Nearly but not all, for in front of the red-framed window, staring moodily out
into the yard, is a young girl. The same fat mug sits ignored before her, but
no foam drips down its sides. She heaves a huge sigh and turns to draw morosely
on the tabletop with one forefinger. Brown curls cling damply to her neck and
even her dress seems to wilt in the heat.
Coming in from the summer warmth is a tallish man, who wears a dark cloak
despite the heat. It is pulled up over his head keeping his face in the shadow
of th hem. All that is clearly visible is a smooth strong chin with a slight
cleft. He moves to the bar and pushes away an inebriated hobbit. "Your coldest
drink," he says to the barkeep, slapping down a few copper coins minted with
ships, perhaps from Dol Amroth. While he waits for his drink to arrive, he
turns and surveys the room. The tip of a sword peeks from under the hem of his
cloak, though he otherwise keeps himself fully covered aside from his dirty
boots.
With the instincts of a bored child, though she is on the edge of adulthood,
Tathar looks up just as this newest arrival pushes through the door and frankly
stares. Round-eyed, round-mouthed for a moment until she remembers the dignity
of her age and snaps her jaw shut, she does nothing more for several moments
besides gape. Then she twists precariously in her chair, leaning sideways and
backwards towards her nearest neighbor and says in a loud whisper, "He must be
just roasting in that. Is /everyone/ out there crazy? Why ever doesn't he take
it off?" And now there are two people (minimum) watching this stranger with
mingled astonishment and caution.
The drink arrives and the barkeep takes the coins with reservation, not at
their worth, but at the customer. But the beer (for that is what he was given),
is taken up and the rim disappears into the hood for a long while as he drinks
down the entire pint. "Another," he says in a fairly flat Westron, though with
a slight clip to the knowing ear. He tosses down a silver coin and says, "And
keep them coming until I tell you to stop." Indeed, he must be hot.
Slowly, spreading like ripples in a pool, silence fills the Common Room as each
person nudges his neighbor, whispers and points and turns to stare. Tathar
squirms on her chair, pokes her neighbor and says at last, loudly, "Why don't
you take it off? The cloak, I mean. Aren't you hot?" Then she blushes a little
and drops her gaze to her drink. "Um.. I mean, you don't have to or anything.
If you don't want to... I just wondered." As she flounders through this last
sentance, her voice gets lower and lower until it is little more than a mumble.
The visitor, while waiting for his next ale, looks down at the young girl and
says, "I think that would be inappropriate." His next drink then arrives and he
takes another draught from it, though less this time as he lowers it more
quickly. His head drops slightly, to shield his eyes from the onlookers and he
quickly moves to a chair near the "cold" hearth. He sits, his legs stretched
out, but the cloak still over him.
For a while embarressment keeps the girl silent, though she watches him sit
down, instinctively drawing back a little though he is still several chairs
away. But at last curiousity wins. "Why? And what's .. in-appro-propriate?"
Unfamiliarity twists her tongue as she tries to repeat what he has said. A hum
of conversation has arisen again as the stranger does nothing more shocking
than wear a dark cloak in the middle of the hottest days of summer, though
nothing like as loud as before he came in.
The man keeps his head down, only his cupid-bow mouth and chin meeting with any
light. "Inappropriate," he patiently repeats before sipping his drink again. "I
think I would not be well-met, or rather, less so than I am now." He then rests
the mug on his knee, leaving a damp ring to collect on his cloak that is draped
over it.
"Oh." Tathar considers this, her head cocked to one side. Dark curls fall into
her face and are pushed impatiently aside. "Why?" she repeats, "What did you
do?" Sudden suspicion narrows her eyes alarmingly. "Steal something? I heard
Malorie was missing a ring..." Of those who are near enough to hear her, some
swivel towards the man, the same suspicion written on their own faces; others
laugh. And one shakes his head firmly. "Nay, nay, twas no ring. Twas a brooch,
and she found it under the waystone."
"Not a'tall," condradicts a short squat man farther down the table. "I heard it
was her necklace and her own father did take it back."
The stranger's lips pull into an annoyed line and he says, "I would not take
your trinkets." He adjusts his seat and his cloak, for a moment billows out
enough that the light spilling in through the windows catches the lower part of
his swordhilt, setting afire the rubies, carbuncles and bloodstones that
encrust it. But it is soon hidden again beneath dark blue. Perhaps it was only
a trick of the eye. Regardless, considering he paid ten times the price for two
pints of ale, he likely is not out for thieving.
"She did?" Tathar sounds slightly disappointed as she turns to scan the room
for the one who says the ring, the brooch, whatever it is, has been found. "If
you say so..." She looks back just as a flash of colored light shines through
the grubby commonplace room. "What...?" but it is gone as if it had never been.
Confusion wrinkles the girl's forehead and softens her voice. "I'm sorry then.
If she's found it already, I guess you couldn't have taken it after all." And
she buries her face in her mug.
"Decidedly not," he says in response. When he senses her look away from him, he
lifts his head enough to get a proper look at her. Though his eyes are
shadowed, they have within them a strange light, almost as if the golden light
of the sun and the silvery light of the moon were mingled for a moment, in a
different light more lovely than both and more captivating than the loveliest
of stars. But he quickly shields them again after he has a look at the young
woman, then has a drink from his mug once more.
Her drink is set back on the table with a clunk and Tathar seems eager to make
amends, though a little shy. Perhaps she felt something of the weight of his
eyes though she didn't see them. "Can I get you some more to drink?" Her hair
hangs about her flushed face and the plain, drab brown dress brushes dirty bare
ankles. "It is /so/ hot..."
He answers, "My drink could use refreshing. It is already paid. Have another
yourself. I gave the barman plenty..." He drinks down the last from his mug,
closing his eyes as he tilts his head back, though the slightest glimmer of
gold glints from his brow before he lowers it again into the shadows of his
cowl.
"I was only drinking water." But a sudden gleam lights up her dark eyes. "Are
you sure you don't mind?" The words trail back across the room, she is already
half-way to the kitchen. A whispered consultation goes on with the bartender
shaking his head several times before throwing both hands into the air. And
Tathar carries two mugs brimming over back to corner triumphantly.
"Ya shouldna be drinking that, Tath!" comes a hoarse shout from behind her, and
she turns her head to stick her tongue out at the scold. "Here." One glass is
thrust out towards the stranger, even as she watches her own with great glee.
He reaches out for the glass, a large, gold and platinum signet ring clearly
visible, but with no human device. "Thank you," he says politely, setting the
empty mug aside. "At least the barkeep knows how to chill his ale..." He blows
the foam from the top and takes a cool sip.
Tathar looks up from blissful contemplation of her forbidden drink. "Of course
he.." she is beginning indignantly when her gaze lands on the ring and all
words are forgotten. "It's beautiful," she whispers after a moment, awed. "I
wish..." She looks down at her own shoeless feet, and worn faded dress and
sighs.
The man is unclear as to what the girl finds beautiful, but at her final words,
he says, "What do you wish?" His voice is calm, though something in it
indicates his genuine interest. He does not often get the chance to speak to
the mortals not in relation to Elrond, yet has always been fascinated by them.
"Come away an stop talkin to him!" orders the same person who chided her for
getting a mug of beer. "He mightn't be a thief, but you oughtn't to talk to
strange folk." But Tathar ignores him entirely this time. "I wish I had pretty
things like that," she says and glances up to where his face hides in the
shadows of the hood. Her feet shuffle quietly on the floor, somehow depositing
her a few inches farther away. "Thank you for the drink." It is an obvious
afterthought.
He nods his head slightly, in obvious receipt of her thanks. "It is better to
be a person who possesses a heart of gold than a jewelry box of it. Perhaps you
will find a nice lad who will be able to give you some pretty things... or you
could learn to make them yourself." He sips another drink, not wanting it to
get warm before he can drink it all.
"Yes." The girl doesn't sound convinced however. "I suppose. But I'd still like
the boxful." At last she seems to remember her own drink, so fervantly desired
but moments ago, so unaccountably forgotten. Her other hand comes up to steady
the brimming mug and she takes a long gulp. Her nose wrinkles up, her mouth
purses and her eyes squinch shuts, but she swallows manfully.
"And what would you do with such things if you had them?" the visitor asks, his
mouth turning in a slight smile.
The remnants of the awful taste fade and Tathar looks up, her eyes turning
starry with dreams. "Wear it... and I would have a beautiful dress and.. and.."
she searches her mind. "Go dancing every night and not have to help Mother
cook. Ever. Unless I wanted to."
Laughter, light and bubbling, comes from inside the hood. "Dance every night? I
think your feet should get tired." But then, he sighs, a strangely sad sigh of
endless lifetimes of regret. "I would give all my wealth just to help my mother
cook..." He looks up slightly as his mind wanders, his face illuminated by the
low light of the room, a strong profile.
Tathar looks doubtful. "If you say so..." Clear in her tone is her complete
disagreement with her feet /ever/ getting tired. Her gaze slides sideways
towards the mostly-full glass she still holds and she lifts it a little, and
then changes her mind. "You would? I hate to cook. I burn everything. And even
Toby wouldn't eat the stew I made." Meditatively she ponders this. "Sewing is
much worse though. Do you really think I could make things like your ring?"
He glances at her. "You can do anything you put your mind to doing, young one."
He smiles then, and lowers his head once more, disguising his face and eyes.
"You could probably even cook well, if you paid attention to what you were
doing."
There is something strange about the eyes that are lifted and as swiftly
hidden. Tathar drops her own to her glass again and edges another half step
farther from the cloak-shrouded man. "Mother always says that too. And I try, I
really do, but there are so many other interesting things to think about." Her
own animation dispells something of the feeling of strangeness that had crept
over her and she looks up again eagerly. "I saw the biggest butterfly the other
day. It had bright yellow wings too."
The mug is lowered again after another drink and he says, "Butterflies are
lovely creatures. It is a pity they are so short-lived. Yet the world would be
less without them. Like the summer leaves, they come every year, to grace the
world for a time, and then they are gone leaving only a sweet memory. But all
the more reason to appreciate them, in their ephemralness."
The girl's eyes go wide again. "Their what?" she asks when he is done. "They're
pretty.. is that what you said?" She takes another swallow of her beer, not so
large this time and manages to swallow it without quite such a large grimace
either. "Who are you anyways? I never heard anybody talk like that before."
He is silent for a time, then says, "Who am I? A traveller, going home... you
may call me Aethelraed if you wish." He smiles at this again, though the smile
is broken as he lifts his mug for another drink, a long one this time.
"Athalred? What sort of name is that?" Despite the possible rudeness of the
words, there is none in her voice, only innocent curiosity. "I'm Tathar
Appledore. I live up the road a bit." A jerk of her curly head indicates the
direction. "Where's home for you?" The afternoon is wearing on towards evening
and still the sky is overcast. A few more people trickle into the room as work
finishes for the day, sitting down with mugs of their own and audible sighs of
pleasure and relief.
He lowers his mug and says with a whistful sort of voice, "I know a fair maiden
named 'Tatharwen...." He is silent for a moment, perhaps simply watching the
people. "It is an old name," he says at last, to her first 'rude' question.
His evident refusal to say where he is going brings a momentary return of
suspicion to the girl's expressive face. "That's almost the same as mine," she
says cautiously. "It must be very old then. I've never heard anything like it."
This statement blatantly ignores her meager sum of 14 years of life. She
glances down to her still nearly-full glass and takes a step sideways to put it
on the nearest table.
He says after a time, "She is older than you are, I am certain, though I do not
know your age. But Tatharwen is older than your mother, older than your
grandmother." He finishes his own ale and sighs deeply. He glances at her
again, then shields his eyes once more.
Suspicion turns to open-mouthed disbelief. "She couldn't be! Granny Bea is
ancient!" Those bright eyes rest briefly on her and she shuffles uncomfortably
and drops her gaze to his empty glass. "You could have the rest of mine, if you
wanted," she offers absently, the subject of age occupying most all of her
thoughts. "Unless she's a hobbit. Hobbits live to be really old." But a tiny
bit of irresoluteness enters her tone. "Is she really?"
He holds out his hand, willing to take the rest of her drink. "No, she is not a
hobbit," he says gently. "She is like me..." This seems enough of an
explination. "Besides, have you ever known a hobbit with a name like
"Tatharwen"? They seem to have nonsensical names like 'butterbean' and
'jamcracker'."
A bubble of laughter is startled from the girl. "Jamcracker," she says giggling
still, and hands him the mug. "No, but I know one named Will and one named
Toldo and Mercy..." She seems quite capable of naming off all the hobbits she
has ever met when another thought runs visibly over her face and she eyes him
carefully. There is nothing outwardly odd there, a tall man, a dark cloak but
Tathar hesitates nervously. "How is she like you?" she asks at last. "You never
said..."
He takes the mug. "She is like me like two hobbits are like each other." He
drinks the rest of the beer from Tathar's mug while it is still relatively
cold. He has had three and a half ales now, yet they seem to have little effect
on him. Closer now, she must be, to hand him the mug, and details such as the
fine weave of his cloak, or the scent of heather and lavender mingled with
horse and leather. A lock of dark hair falls against his pale brow and though
he seems clean-shaven, the dark haze visible on men's chins at the end of a day
is absent from his.
Tathar rolls her eyes but at last lets the matter drop with a grin. "All right,
all right, I won't ask anymore." Turning away, she winds her way back to the
table she had left some time before, picks up her own glass of water and takes
a deep swallow, swishing the taste of beer from her mouth with relief. Once
away, she seems reluctant to return, her feet moving more slowly on the way
back. And when she stops, it is still a half-step further than before, and she
shivers a little as if from cold, although the onset of evening has brought no
cooling air with it yet. "So, will you tell me where you're going or is that a
secret too?"
The air upon this summer's eve is rather warm, and perhaps even muggy with the
rain that falls and streams along the window panes that look out upon the Great
East Road from the common room. Few can be seen out on the cobblestone way,
save those running from the stables or staggering from an evening during which
too much ale or spirits had been imbibed.
And so the passage of a tall, deeply hooded figure might marked. He walks at a
quickened pace, solitary in his passage and determined in his step. He
disappears from view as he rounds the corner.
But his footfall is heard only moments before he comes into view again,
pushing the door open and glancing about the room. His dark hair clings to his
brow. Water beads upon his face and soaks his raiment. Without word or
greeting, or any other signal of recognition to any other patron of that house,
Tolion makes his way to a vacant, round table off to the side and seats himself.
He finally answers her with, "I am going home, to the west, to where the land
ends and the sea begins." He feels this is sufficient, though he is distracted
as he sees Tolion enter, recognizing his travelling companion, yet giving him
no more than a casual nod, as if he does not know him at all. He knows not
Tolion's reputation in this town, nor does he want to expose him as one who
fraternizes with an obvious oddity such as himself.
The door's creak is mostly masked by the chatter and laughter of the room, but
a gust of fresher air follows Tolion in and the patrons turn almost as one to
look.
"It's raining," a disgusted voice raises above the general buzz.
"Is a good thing, cool it off a bit," says another in answer.
Tathar herself stretches to catch a bit of the comparative coolness. "You've
seen the sea?" Awe akin to that which greeted his ring fills her face. "Is it
really as huge as they say? Bigger than a lake and.. and salty?" Her voice is
half-disbelieving, half afraid of being made fun of.
"It is quite salty," Aethelraed confirms with a nod. "And large. Huge ships can
sail upon it for days and never see land. The shores are covered with shells,
and in some of the shells, you can hear the echo of the crashing waves, even
when far from the sea itself. When one stands upon the sands and watches the
ship of the sun set into the uttermost West, one is filled with numinous
delight, which transcends into a joyous wonder as the stars wink out in the
darkening sky..." Apparently, this question has caused him to lapse into the
same poetic soliloquy as the butterfly comment.
Wreathed with the thin veil of shadow in the corner where he sits, Tolion looks
upon a passing serving girl in a casual manner. If she returns his glance, she
does not wish it to be known, for she bustles past him on some errand; actual
or contrived. As his eyes follow her, he notices Aethelraed speaking with a
Breegirl, and his gaze settles upon them. Though the multitudes of voices that
swell within the common room might dampen the sound of the falling rain upon
the window panes and the roof, and nought within this din might be heard by
dull ears, the Stranger looks on as one who hearkens. Still, he is rather far
away ...
In a distracted manner, Tolion reaches into his pockets and produces a pouch
of, presumably, pipeweed and a long, slender pipe, filling them with the same
careless air.
The words are bewildering. Tathar listens, confusion filling her eyes and in
the end picks out one of the few things she has actually understood. "For days?
But..." Her eyes unfocus as she tries to imagine it and at last gives up. "I
have never even been away from Bree," she confesses. "I can't imagine going
days and days in a boat at all." Behind her, the door bangs open again and the
sharp smell of the first rain after dryness cuts through the odors of smoke and
beer. The pounding rainsong trebles for those few minutes. Just inside the
door, a boy stops and scans the room intently, making his way towards Tathar a
moment later.
Aethelraed eyes the boy as he enters, but keeps his head down, only peeking at
him from under the hem of the cowl. Finally, he stands and says to Tathar,
"Thank you for the company, but I should get back to my ... horse." He glances
at the rain. There is nothing like getting wet before bed. A sigh. He walks
toward the door, nodding once to Tolion with a smirk, then he disappears into
the rainy night.
Tolion lights the pipe, the embers flaring with his indrawn breath. The smoke
wreathes his dirtied, wet countenance and then spirals away to join a grey
cloud about the man's crown. But as he puffs, sending yet more plumes billowing
between his lips or streaming from his nostrils, his eyes never leave the
strange patron to the Prancing Pony, save when they stray to the Breegirl at
times, as if they watch the speaker.
But he stirs, the pipe clenched between his teeth, as the 'Tall Man' leaves
the common room. He does not follow upon his heels, but awaits his reappearance
out on the street before he too takes a few hurried steps across the crowded
room, slipping into the rain and letting the scent of fresh water upon dry
earth mingle with the pungent aromas of pipeweed and ale.
"Tath!" The boy's voice rises sharp and impatient when he gets closer, brushing
past a tall cloaked man without a second glance. "Come on, you're late for
supper again. You know what Ma said last time..." Without waiting, he turns to
shove his way back towards the door and after a pause Tathar follows him.