Shepherding Village
This is the home of a small, proud, and independent people who live primarily by herding sheep in the open lands south of the Great East Road. Once driven from this region by troll depredations, they have returned and appear to be prospering, perhaps because they can also profit by trade on the Great East Road. There are many sturdy houses and smaller huts clustered on a hill here, safely ensconced behind a deep ditch and wall. The ditch is filled with thorn bushes ... and the gate to the village is by a removable walkway over that ditch. Clearly the possibility of attack, whether from trolls or something worse, has not been ignored.
A long, low, whitewashed building, sprawling along the hillside below the caravanserai, appears to the south. The thatched roof spills down to the tops of its lead-paned windows, thick glass aglow with firelight.
Sheep bleat inside the secure village south of the Great East Road. A sign that the sun has set and the livestock had to be removed from the pasture. And amid the sound, smell and sight of sheep, a few of the fair folk approach the gathering house. "Now, let us hope they changed their minds," says one of them, Sidhel. "I would not want to return without anything but the news of stubborn villagers."
"We could always use deer-hide," suggests Tirloth idly, scuffing her boot in the dirt as she follows behind.
"That would be a resort," replies Sidhel. "But then the trolls would certainly want something extraordinary. Hence the approach with sheep," he explains as he opens the door to the gathering house. "But their smith seems to cherish our wine, so there's hope left." He enters the building.
You enter the Gathering House.
Gathering House - Common Room
This is not quite a pub, and not an inn, but a simple gathering place for the village. The rough plaster walls waver with firelight, and the dark memories of pipe smoke smudged up to the exposed beams. Hay is scattered over the stone floor, and pokes through, above, but it is warm, and dry, except in heavy rain. A great, open hearth stands in the center of the longhouse, filling it with the earthy scents of smouldering peat and bracken. Serviceable tables and benches are scattered throughout, set with candles and lanterns.
In the evening, this room is a study in quiet rest and large mugs of beer. Shepherds sit at their ease, many of them eating stew from bowls. At a large table near the head of the room, Grimhauken sits with his wife, daughter of the old smith, the Chief's niece, and they talk in lively fashion. At the moment, several men at other tables are laughing, looking at Grimhauken as if he has told a joke.
Into this homely gathering enter the elves, quietly and unobtrusive as is their nature. Sidhel approaches the table where Grimhauken can be seen. There he bows to the smith and his people. "Good evening to you," he says in the common speech.
Unobtrusive they may have wished to be: but that is impossible. By the time Sidhel reaches Grimhauken's table, every eye is on him.
Grimhauken looks up, his face an odd mixture of emotions. Perhaps greed is one of them. Wonder most distinctly is not.
"An evening," he replies, "and your tolls for use of the camp are welcome. We've talked about your request to buy sheep."
A flick of grey eyes; Tirloth tosses an imperceptible glance in Sidhel's direction.
Sidhel returns the glance with something akin to amusement. Then he speaks to Grimhauken. "Is that so? And what was the result of your talk? My offer is still standing: two barrels of this fine vintage," he places a flask upon the table, "for ten live sheep. And two silver pennies for each sheepskin."
Grimhauken laughs grimly. "That might get you one sheep, and a couple of skins!" he says acidly, "if the shepherd was drunk and the sheep was dying! Be serious."
Another Elf enters; a fluid shadow that turns into the outlined figure of the tracker Gwartad stands just inside the house. His grey eyes dart around the room, and linger on a man with blonde hair; then his gaze travels on until all the room has been surveyed. He does not yet move, but he tightens a string of rope somewhere, and brushes something from a sleeve.
"We are," points out Tirloth quietly, putting a hand on the table. She turns to the other: "Are there any others that might sell us their animals? It looks like we'll have nothing here."
"One sheep?" Sidhel looks almost annoyed. "You must be joking, good master smith! This wine is worth a lot more sheep than your village can account for! It is from Dorwinion and even the Elvenking of Mirkwood drinks it with great joy! Here, have a sample!" Not waiting for any further reply, Sidhel pours a good quantity of the red liquid into a wooden goblet and with a cortoeus bow he serves this to Grimhauken.
Grimhauken shrugs. "No matter how it tastes, a sheep's worth more than two barrels of wine," he replies, "besides, most of the men here prefer beer. But I'll take a sample, if you prefer." He takes up the goblet, and sips.
A pause. A longer pause than one might expect. "Not bad," he concedes. "We might be able to sell it to a traveler, but they'd probably pay more for mutton. It takes mutton to travel on, and unless they had more coin than most travelers here, they wouldn't be buying all the sheep in the village."
The tracker walks further into the room, to where a discussion seems to be taking place about the quality of wine. It is no surprise that his companions take part in the debate.
He stops by the table, and for some the single look he sends tells of no urgent business outside.
He nods a greeting to the others present - and some of those follow his steps carefully with their eyes.
Sidhel glances at the smith and frowns visibly. "You would sell this marvellous wine to unwitting travellers, to people who cannot even tell mutton from sheep? Surely you would want to keep this vintage for rare occasions once you have purchased it." He shakes his head. "Have another sip, though, the full flavour will only develop after two or more sips," he then alludes casually.
Grimhauken frowns, taking another sip. "A fine enough wine," he agrees, "but I'm not so enamored of wine to give up ten sheep for it. Nor would any other man here. Silver, or preferrably gold, that travels. That'll buy goods from a caravan, or pay for stuff in Bree. Wine? Can't take it with you without all kinds of precautions, and it goes bad if you're not careful."
For those who might notice it - only Quendi, surely - the face of Gwartad betrays some interest in the wine, although he does not speak of it. In fact, he has not said a word, although it is clear that he would want to say something about the wine going bad.
Sidhel tilts his head. "You mean you would rather sell us the skins for that wine and any live sheep for gold?" Thoughtfully he pats his pouch. "Gold, silver, we elves do not care too much about minted metal, but I have some of it."
Grimhauken smiles then. "Ah now," he says, "the wine for the skins, that's a fair enough trade. What will you pay for the sheep?"
Something about his expression suggests he thinks that's a big step toward a deal. One he no doubt considers quite favorable to himself.
The notion of trading the wine for skins is revolting, but Gwartad hides his feelings expertly.
"I would give you," Sidhel seems to ponder, "twenty silver pennies," says he. "Yes. That is much money as I keep hearing from other traders."
Grimhauken frowns. "Two silver pennies a sheep?" he says dubiously. "That seems to me a bit low if you're buying so many all at once. Where else do you plan to buy them?"
Sidhel frowns again. "There is this man who recently brought a dead sheep. He spoke of one trader near Bree who has a lot of sheep. And his are already shorn so they are likely to be cheaper than yours. I think we should go there instead. Maybe he is also interested in our wine."
"It is possible we will want them shorn, anyway," adds Tirloth, then falls back into silence.
Grimhauken shrugs. "Why then," he says, "you shall have to try to get the sheep back from Bree alive across the Trollshaws," he replies, "and spend at least a month and a half in the journey, since sheep do not walk fast. If they ever get this far at all. I should think you could manage five silver dimes per sheep, since the cost for you of getting them from Bree could easily exceed thirty, once you include the cost of supplies to travel, wear and tear on equipment, the risk of trolls or orcs attacking you while you move the herd four or five miles a day down the road ... all in all, I should think that a deal.
"Five dimes per sheep? Good man, this must be a joke." Sidhel wrily looks at his pouch, then back to the smith. "I would pay you three silver dimes for all ten sheep, plus the wine for ten skins." He waits a little before he opens his pouch. "Maybe I should add this to the price of the sheep." With that he produces a flawless pearl.
"... ... so ... ... ... ... ... ... ...," murmurs Tirloth under her breath, raising an eyebrow as Sidhel shows the pearl.
Grimhauken smiles. "Deal," he says as if to make sure that the elf doesn't have the chance to wiggle out of it. "We talked about it, and I'm putting up half. The rest come from other folks' herds. Just give my wife the money, and she'll see to the distribution and get you your sheep and skins.
The woman in question smiles and waits for the elf to pay, looking ... distinctly pleased.
"Three dimes of silver, two barrels of wine and this pearl for ten live sheep and ten sheepskins," recounts Sidhel loudly so all can hear it. "You shall receive the money now, the wine and the pearl will be yours once the skins and the sheep are ready at our campsite."
Grimhauken nods. "Agreed," he says agreeably, suddenly much friendlier. "I'll go tell the shepherds to start pulling it all together. We know which sheep it'll be. You'll want to check them out before it's final, of course."
Sidhel nods and from his pouch he takes a purse. One by one he counts 30 silver pennies onto the table, then puts the purse back where it belongs. "Agreed. And may all know how generous the people of this village are!" And as he looks back to Tirloth and Gwartad only those two would notice the wink from his left eye. "We made a good deal," he states.
You +give 3 Silver Dimes to Grimhauken.
Grimhauken gives a slight bow, and heads out the door, briskly.
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