======================== Steward's Reckoning ========================
IC time is: Nighttime < About 10:41 PM >
IC day is: Orgilion <Star-day>
IC date is: 16 Girithron <December>
Moon phase: Waxing Gibbous <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel shines very brightly above the horizon in the
western sky. Right beside it shine the much fainter stars
of the Remmirath.
IC year is: 3039 TA
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RL time: Sun Oct 01 22:53:51 2006
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At the Sign of the Prancing Pony
The Great East Road bends around the southeastern corner of Bree-hill. The Road leads away to the west and southeast, and where it sweeps past the foot of the hill there sits a large three storey inn. The inn is reached by a wide cobblestone pathway, with two wings that run back, away from the Road to the east, on land partly cut out from the hill's lower slopes. As a result, the rear second-floor windows of the inn are level with the ground. A wide arch leads to a courtyard between the two wings. Above the arch is a lit lamp and beneath it swings a large signboard: a fat white pony rearing up on its hind legs.
Contents:
Ferny
Obvious exits:
Cobblestone Pathway leads to Before the Prancing Pony.
Broad Way leads to Broad Way - North Bree.
Market Way leads to Bree Market - North.
SouthEast leads to GER: Centre of Bree.
West leads to Great East Road.
"Whooo! Hooo! Hooohoooo!"
The calling of a wood owl in a huge oak tree above the intersection of Broad and the Great East Road is loud and clear on the quiet spring night. It is late enough that there is no sound audible from the nearby Prancing Pony (though there are sure to be a few straggling -- and intoxicated -- patrons still within those homely walls), but the sounds of the great outdoors; they do abound. Crickets serenade the wood owl, and some other sorts of beasts rustle through the brush off to the side under the big tree.
Another form of wildlife rests under the tree as well -- though he may seem more civilized to the common outsider, Bill Ferny is definitely considered wild and dangerous by those within the hedge of Bree. 'Official scoundrel of Bree,' they say, and the dirty, gangrely man looks it as well. There is enough orange light spilling from the lanterns hanging all around the Prancing Pony that this man is visible to the passerby, but sitting as he is, still and quiet propped against the trunk of the great oak, he may be more likely to be noticed due to the spout of smoke billowing from his little black wooden pipe and his mouth -- the scent is bitter and sharp, not unlike the man inhaling it.
But he is not so alone as he might think, for a second figure wends its way east from the gates of the town; as it draws near to Mr. Ferny it slows and comes to a halt. "Good evening," says the fellow, for surely no lady ever had such a deep, gruff voice. "The hour is late, yet I see that bothers you not."
"And why should it bother me, long-legs? Something out here to be 'fraid of, is there?" Chuckling, the man straightens up a touch, sitting up straight, his back losing contact with the bark of the tree as he peers toward the shrouded figure who has approached him. He erupts into a brief coughing fit, then beckons the man closer with a wave of his arm. "Have you a spark, shadow? My pipe seems to need a flame."
Holding the pipe out toward the man in his arm, he reveals that indeed, the tobacco within is no longer lit.
The stranger does not stir at once, but merely gazes -- so one might assume -- at Bill from within his cowl. But at length the hood leans forward and appears to inspect the contents of the pipe. "I have a match or two," answers he at last, "though they are hard to come by on the road, and I would save them for fires. However did you light your weed before?"
"That inn there," replies Bill Ferny. "Has a fireplace. Just such a fireplace as may be used for keeping one's stew hot, even on a warm spring night. The Master of that house also has matches, or can get 'em, though he may be loathe to do such fetching for one such as you..."
Ferny appraises the tall man quietly as he grumbles under his breath, "...or me, for that matter." Ferny leans back against the tree, tucking his pipe away within his tattered cloak. "No matter, I'm trying to quit the stuff anyway.. Sends me into coughing fits like you've never seen! But you, eh? You say you live by fire on the road. I'll take that to mean you're either one of them rangers or a mistreated fella looking for a place to settle..."
A shrug is the immediate reply, and the tall visitor's hood turns towards the doors of the Prancing Pony. "Mistreated is certainly one word for it," says he then. "Though I did not say I live upon the road. I merely use it." The cowl turns back towards Bill. "I trust there is lodging to be found alongside that stew at the inn? Is the board fair, would you say, or am I in for further mistreatment?"
"I'd say watch your back in Bree," replies Ferny. "Most folk around here don't trust your type too openly. But Butterbur will treat you kindly enough, and might even have a stew for you left at this hour. And if you offer him a bit of news, he may fetch you a few matches." Nodding, Ferny hitches himself up to a stance, eyeing the stranger evenly as he points toward the dimly-lit windows of the Common Room of the Prancing Pony.
Nodding in understanding, the fellow sniffs in the dark ere he says, "For a bit of news, I myself might fetch those same matches for you. Why would a fellow such as I watch my back? You seem to trust me well enough, despite my appearance. Has something happened here of late?"
"I don't trust no one," corrects Ferny, a scowl fixing on his face as he stumbles toward the Pony. Does he intend to accompany the stranger there?
"I just know that no one trusts me either, so fair's fair. As for things going on here recently, I wouldn't say so, sir. You looking to become a sherriff or something?"
Chuckling, Ferny walks slowly, then doubles over, coughing uncontrollably for several seconds. He stands upright again, wiping spittle from his gruff chin, then drying the back of his hand on his cloak. "Naw, sir, I'd watch your back because you're a ranger, or you're real trouble. Folks'll look at you funny enough, you'll see."
"That I shall," answers the visitor, and he follows along towards the Pony's doors. "But perhaps I can convince them that I am no trouble at all. After all, a hood does not make for a scoundrel, only for a warm and glad traveller in these early months of the year. Surely you agree, mister...?" he adds expectantly.
"Bill," the Breeman answers. "Just Bill." Nodding, he extends his palm from his body, gesturing toward the warm-looking door into the foyer of the Prancing Pony. "And I'll leave you with it, from here. Take care, Mister...?" he answers in like kind.
"You may call me Rush," replies the other, bowing his cowl once more. In the warm glow of the lanterns his gaze twinkles from under the heavy cloth, and by his voice he appears to be smiling. "I thank you for your aid, Bill, and shall no doubt see you soon to repay it. Have a pleasant night."
And with that the stranger slips through the doors; ere they close again the sight of dark hair can be seen as the man removes his cowl, though no glimpse of his face can be gained.
