Petitioner to the Council : 5 posts
<div>“We are lately of Whitfurrows, in the Shire and we come here, good sir, enquiring if you are in need of any help. My brother and I are quick on our feet, we can serve and clean, and Pod here is a decent cook and baker. We’ll even and sing a tune and dance a jig, if required, though I see you have a Bard,” she smiled and nodded at the lovely, young woman standing nearby, who seemed quite taken at the sight of she and Pod. “Are you hiring, by any chance, kind sir?”
Beatrice watched the handsome innkeep’s boy walk away with some regret. It still did not seem fair. A male Bard could charm a serving girl in every inn, and write a new song about each. A lady Bard had to be far more discreet, if she hoped for a patronage of a noble household.
Ah well, the boy was too young anyway.
Besides, now there were Hobbits! Senior Bards sternly impressed on the newcomers that Hobbits were to be treated as the adults they were. No ruffling their hair, or pinching their cheeks, or doing anything that you wouldn’t want a ten-foot tall giant doing to you.
But their hair was so fluffy, and their cheeks so delightfully chubby! Beatrice clasped her hands in front of her to avoid the temptation. “I am not here to sing,” she assured the Hobbit lass. “If you should wish to perform, it would be such a pleasure! We so rarely hear music from the Shire.” She made sure her voice carried to the innkeeper, who might not be fully aware of just how wonderful a treat she was being offered.
She would have expanded on the theme, but a man’s voice came behind with “Bea?”
That was not acceptable. She was Lady Beatrice both by birth and by Guild rank, and she would not be addressed as anything less. She composed her face, one eyebrow arched just so, and turned slowly. She had long mastered the trick of appearing to look down on men a foot taller than she was.
“Do I know you?” she asked in her iciest voice, and with a sinking heart she realized that yes, she did.
</div>Jan 3, 2022 at 2:25 pm
Petitioner to the Council : 3 posts
There were icicles climbing up Dust’s throat. He couldn’t breathe. The ground was falling away beneath his feet and his eyes burned as choice quotes from all the songs he’d written about her ran through his mind.
He was feeling something, a whole lot of it in fact, but what was it exactly? Which song?
Was it the despair from when she had left him, or the anger that followed? Despair came again after that, returning many times, bringing with it sickening brokenhearted ballads. People liked those. It almost seemed worth it some nights.
By the time he saw the bottom of yet another bottle of fine wine that his misery bought him, anger would resurface. The next songs were bitter and jaded. They didn’t please anyone, least of all Dust himself, but they demanded to be written.
Too much sweet wine and too many bitter words finally wore him down to mourning. A long mourning. Inspiration seemed to flee for good until hunger moved in, and the grief had to become words again. He was back to songs about lost and unrequited love, which were much better appreciated. Apparently heartbreak was good for your purse.
The grief never left, but it did quieten down eventually. Though happy songs were harder to write, Dust kept on at it. Every morning the sun on his path shone a little brighter again. Finally, there were even days when he never once thought about Beatrice.
And now here she was, and all together the grief, the despair, the anger rushed back into his chest, accompanied by the unexpected and most painful of all: hope.
Which was dashed as soon as she asked if she knew him. What!
There were no words for that. Oh, you could describe the cruel scene wonderfully in song, but when the woman you loved so much it made you short of breath actually failed to recognise you, there wasn’t anything you could do except stare at her in offended disbelief.
For a while, at least, until it became unbearable.
“You did once,” Dust said, defeated, and stepped back, turning towards the door. Curse this inn.Jan 3, 2022 at 2:41 pm
Citizen of Imladris : 94 posts
“Hiring?” Jorvan wiped his hands on his apron and smoothed down his beard as he considered the request of the two hobbits. “Well, you can see we are quite busy, that’s the truth. But this is quite unusual, you see. Quite unusual.”
He tapped on his chest for a moment. “But that is not to say we might not want the help for a night or two. Just passing through are you? Maybe just need enough to buy your fare? I think maybe we could come to an arrangement. The youngest usually does the cleaning, but maybe the occasion could use some helping hands.”Jan 24, 2022 at 11:18 am
A crash from somewhere seemed to clinch it for the barkeep. “Why yes, indeed yes perhaps we could use the help for a night or two, if that suits you. What do you say?”
Citizen of Imladris : 21 posts
Arohir nodded as the other man seemed almost disingenuous with the various comments he had made as Arohir told Master Giles about his family.
And then he said he was sorry for Arohir’s loss, and any doubts he had about the other man seemed to disappear.
While the other man may have been drunk, he certainly seemed as honest as one could be with that much alcohol. Arohir silently sighed in relief as he picked up on what the staff were doing with regards to Giles’ drink.
“Not all my brothers or their husbands have large amounts of land. I suppose I was the luckiest, with Fréawulf being heir to a small settlement in the Westfold – and with him being my closest friend since boyhood before we were wed,” he chuckled. “Most of them simply share the house with their respective husbands,” he continued, before allowing Fréawulf to speak.
“Well, I suppose you’ve at least heard how we are good with horses? That much is certainly true,” Fréawulf explained. “Our history is a long one, though not nearly as long as that of Gondor or the Elves,” he continued, telling Giles of the history of Rohan.Jan 24, 2022 at 9:21 pm