(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 71 - The Prancing Pony

Real time is: 01:49:32 MST on Tue Feb 06 2001.

Common Room
This large and rectangular room serves as the common room of the Prancing Pony. The high wooden beams over head are soot covered from the ages of smoke that has been exhaled here. Three dim lamps cast their beams down on the room, but being as they are so heavily veiled in smoke, most of the room's lighting comes from the blazing log fire in the far northwest corner of the room. Also situated along most of the northern wall of the room is a long bar, its wood slightly scarred though well polished, and a long line of bar stools lines up in front of it to accomodate the lone individuals. Maple stands behind the bar serving a patron and holding a MENU. Several tables, of various sizes and shapes, lie scattered about the room, some tucked away into dark and shadowy corners. Several game tables stand against the southern wall, directly opposite the bar.
Table code is in effect here. Type thelp for table commands.

Contents:
Erutirn
Malorie
Dart Board
Long Bar
Obvious exits:
Water Closet and Foyer

The Prancing Pony is reasonably quiet this evening, the Common Room looking rather sparse. Afew weary travellers sit down to a hot meal, a man and wife quarrel over the purchase of a cow, and three hobbits sit in the corner getting drunk. Near the fireplace a man sits, not from around these parts. Garbed in a cloak of white wolfskin, he quietly sips a cup of tea. He watches the couple argue, faintly amused. He sets down his tea, and his lips curl down in disgust. Producing a small flask from under his cloak he pours some dark brown liquor into the tea. Taking a sip he smiles, then leans back to continue watching this entertaining squabble.

A gust of air--warm of an evening--whispers through the common room as the doors open to let someone inside. A lass, by the look of her (except for her garb, which is quite unladylike for the likes of the ladies in Bree) enters. Boot heels tapping firmly on the floor, the lass inhabiting those boots strides across the hall towards the fire, her long dark red hair a-tangle behind her.

But then, she stops, draws in a breath, and sighs. Someone is in *her* chair. Well, it really isn't her chair. But for the past four months hardly anyone else but Miss Malorie Foxglove from Archet has had the mere /chance/ of sitting in it.

Walking into the Prancing Pony a few mere moments after Malorie, comes the knight Erutirn. His leg giving him away to those who haven't seen him yet, the man spots Morrandir and plots his course over towards him. "Morrandir! There you are, have you had a good time in this land? 'Tis a strange and divided lot, hobbits and humans and people who are both curious and distrustful of us." The man walks without his normal attire of leather armour over his clothes.

Morrandir looks up and smiles at Erutirn. "Strange indeed, though fortunately we are somewhat intimidating to them. Even if they are mistrustful, they have to be nice. Not that we would harm anyone..." He chuckles. "Sit down." He points to a chair opposite him. "Do you know how long it will be until we must return to the road?"

The voices at the table nearby distract Malorie from her rooted gaze of disgust. With a sigh, the girl looks over to the two, and her brows raise as she remembers the men from the evening before. It is only a minute--and a short one at that--before she gives a sniff at the person sitting in her chair and makes her way casually over to the table where the odd men are sitting. "Good evening," she says, even before she has reached the table.

"When was the last time I was informed what we were doing, Morrandir? I go where I am told, fight were told. When I command, I will expect no less of those under me. I'm sure we could question them, but who knows when they will find what they want?" Erutirn says, ordering himself a large ale. "Today... is a day for ale." He grins slightly, turning towards Malorie. "Good evening. You're the forrester, correct?"

"Well you're the Knight, you should know." The squire replies with a grin. Sipping his tea, he looks at Malorie. "Good evening...er..." Morrandir's brow furrows. "I don't believe I caught your name...?"

Malorie grins a little at Erutirn's greeting, reaching up to scratch behind her right ear. "One of many foresters, perhaps," she muses. "Though there aren't many to be found in Bree Proper. You might also call me Malorie," the girl says, grinning a bit more as she looks to Morrandir and adds a nod.

Grinning slightly as the ale arrives, "I'm newly a knight, Morrandir, that does not give me right to command a quest... especially with the lords of two nobles houses as well as a son of the Lord Prince himself upon this quest." Erutirn leans in a bit, "Though, I'll try to get myself a raiding party... go cause trouble in umbar, if the Lord Prince allows it of course." Then he stands again and looks towards Malorie, "Ok, then... Malorie it is, since I am sure there are no other Malories in bree, the city proper or not."

"I somehow doubt the Prince will approve, Erutirn. He does not like troublemakers." Morrandir says with a grin. Turning to Malorie he rises slightly, and bows. "A pleasure meeting you Malorie, I am Morrandir, Blue Squire of Dol Amroth."

The girl now raises a brow--quite in question as to the meaning of the other's comment. She is too used to slights and ridicule, perhaps, so that everything is taken with another meaning to it. Still, she studies Erutirn quietly a moment before finally sniffing and looking to Morrandir as she introduces himself. "Aye," she says now, pensive. "You were talking about guts and maggots yester' evening," she recalls. Quite loudly, so that the arguing couple turn to look at her in disgust--finally agreeing on something.

Nods slightly towards Malorie, "Morrandir has reminded me, I've forgotten my manours. I am Erutirn Calgar, Knight of Dol Amroth." Erutirn says, glancing towards Morrandir. "Yes, he's heard a few too many tales of battles in the desert... how many times have you faught down south, twice now?" The man shakes his head, starting to drink his ale. "I really lose track of battles myself, the small ones seem to blend together to add to the large ones."

"Battles," Malorie smirks slightly, drawing her head back to consider the knight quizzically. "Is that your sole occupation?" she wonders, chewing upon her lip. "I should think it would be rather tiring. All those maggots and....whatnot."

"Er...yes." Morrandir replies, uneasily scratching the back of his neck. "Sorry about that." He casts a sharp glance at the couple, who have continued their quarrel. He can contain himself no longer.

"For Ulmo's sake, just buy the brown one from Rose and get the calves from Mr. Underhill!!"

The couple stare at him blankly for afew moments, then the man nods. The woman however, seems to disagree, and they both launch into arguing once more. "What these people need is a good war! That would sort them out!" Morrandir pauses, and looks up at Malorie, his cheeks flushing red. "Pardon me..."

But already Malorie's eye are wide and quite searching for understanding in Morrandir's gaze. "IS there such a thing as a *good* war?" she wonders, now scratching inside her ear. Perhaps to make certain there was nothing wrong with her hearing...

"It is not our mere occupation. Morrandir is a squire, one day he will be a knight... I'm suprised I am a knight before him, but that isn't the question on hand. The knights form the noblity of our people and as the noblity, it is our duty to protect all others from harm. Some of us, like myself, are not nobles... I am a veteran of the army, I was but a simple Man of Arms in the armies... so, I lack some of the education others have been privy to, but shall start again when I return for Amroth." Erutirn turns now to Morrandir, "War? This far north?! Are you crazy, man? Who would stop it, these folk have not the army... our northern kin are too small in numbers."

"No, of course not." Morrandir hastily replies. "War is not nice, but a necessity in these dark times." He looks at Erutirn and shakes his head. "I did not mean it literally. But those two speak of the purchase of cattle as though it were as important as deciding whether to besiege a fortress from the east or west. I am almost jealous of their 'freedom'."

Furrowing her brows, Malorie eyes Morrandir a moment, as if to understand the man--and as if to understand the man is impossible. "When you depend upon cattle for your store of winter wheat, 'tis important enough," Malorie says, and yet her smile turns smug with a thought. "In all your swordplay, I bet me brothers could fight either of you down with their fists." She shrugs. "Me, too, if I were a tad taller."

The squire laughs heartily, leaning back in his chair and almost tipping over. "I do not doubt that you could m'lady. But I hope it does not come to that. However..." his voice now takes a graver tone, "the shadow cannot be held back by fists. But if everyone in the world was as strong-willed as you seem to be, The Enemy would be having a far harder time..."

The knight bursts into laughter again, "The bree folk are a queer lot. Though, if the women of your line are any indication the men must be as giants, but first will not help you when you stand against an orc... it might help get you cut to pieces faster, but that's about it. Enough of this, tell us of this place called Bree."

Malorie looks back and forth between the two. If a compliment it was, she does not understand the laughter behind it. But then, the girl has been sadly misinformed about humour from her earliest years. Finally, she decides to answer the question posed to her by the knight. "You're in Bree," she says simply. "Look about and you can see for yourself what it is." She grabs a mug, half-drained, from a tray as one of the servers clears a nearby table, and then takes a swig from it quickly.

The serving girl who holds the tray gives Malorie a blink of surprise, but shakes her head and merely moves on. "I do not care much for it," she says. And one may only surmise she is *not* talking about the brew as she takes another longer drink from the mug.

"You don't like it?" Morrandir says, looking quizically at the lass. "Why not? It seems a charming little town. If not a little too quiet. Is that it? A budding young lass such as yourself feels restricted by the town's simplicity? Like a flower unable to bloom because the garden is too small." He shakes his head. "Forgive me, I do tend to ramble after afew drinks."

The dear girl seems to squirm at the mention of gardens and flowers, for indeed, Malorie thinks of herself no more than a garden weed at times. "I just don't seem to....like it," she finally says, draining the rest of the strong brew from the mug quickly and setting it upon the table. "Some like it. I...don't, much."

"A good enough answer." Erutirn says to Malorie, then hs stops to listen to Morrandir. "You really must excuse Morrandir, he tends to have his eye caught by many things... wasn't it you who got into trouble for talking about stealing an elf maiden from those realms with your dashing good looks when we got there, Morrandir?" The knight grins, "I'm sorry, I am wishing for my home, as I have the last few weeks and my mind seems to be spiralling downward for it."

"I said nothing of dashing good looks." Morrandir glares at the Knight. "Besides, I left those at the Fords of Isen. If they ever existed at all." He chuckles. "I should try to prevent my eye from getting caught by things, shouldn't I? Lest the other be caught by the tip of a sword aswell." He smiles, despite the rather macabre nature of the joke.

Stranger and stranger the conversation seems all the time. From maggots, to wars, and now elves? "There are no elves about Bree," Malorie says, raising an eyebrow. "Have you actually *seen* an elf?" she wonders now, and looks between the two rather presumptuously.

"A number of them, actually. I would have thought they would be here, from time to time... oh well, perhaps they wish to avoid being waylaid for forresters..." Erutirn says with a laugh, "Ok... I shall stop jesting like that. However, have any elves been through here recently?"

"Yes, we have seen a good deal of the fair-folk." Morrandir says, a rather distant gleam in his eye. He smiles, recalling fond memories. He brushes aside his cup of tea, and takes a swig from his flask. He sight contentedly. "Can't beat the liquor of the elves," he points to his flask, "had it topped up at Rivendell. If it was any other drink it would be long finished, but this is a very potent brew."

Malorie chews on her lip in thought over this. "Well, I've yet to see one, and until I do, I shall believe they are naught but fiction," she says, and yawns quite loudly, casting a glance over to her favorite chair.

Which has miraculously been vacated!

Glancing around, the knight says. "Fiction? Oh, they are real... as real as you and me. They just don't like be pestered, think us humans are quick to action." He looks at Morrandir, "Though they're the best healers around, isn't that right?"

"They are indeed. Would that we had reached the Golden Wood sooner. The healer there said he loss of my eye was mostly due to the infection." Morrandir touches his eyepatch. "But it shows people that I have been doing my duty." He chuckles, "and gives me a 'rough' appearance at the same time."

Malorie laughs a bit at this comment of Morrandir's, for she certainly should count in the same vein, herself. And, as if to prove it, she makes a rather loud yawn--stifled as it is by the attempt of a hand over her mouth. "Well," she says when recovered from the yawn, "I am going to snatch my place back in that chair near the fire and take a nap." She glances back over her shoulder once more to make sure the chair is vacated and available. "T'was..an interesting conversation." And she gives each a nod with the merest smile. "Good even to you gentlemen," she manages before another yawn overtakes her.