Elendor
Smoking is bad for your health
.. as Granddaddy Rushroot finds out after Brandebras and Rathos share his table
Sort Date: no date set
Location: The Prancing Pony
Game Date: January 3046
IC Time: Evening
Description: Common Room(#32029RM)
This large and rectangular room serves the purpose of Common Room for the Prancing Pony. Large windows along the western end of the room peek out over the Great East Road which runs outside the Inn. There are long tables with bench seats for the patrons in the centre of the room. Nestled into the wall is a large fireplace with several bundles of wood piled next to it. Overhead, lamps hang down from roof beams, but their light is dim and half-veiled in smoke. The corners of the room are wrapped in shadow.
Obvious exits:
Out
================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Mon May 25 05:54:15 2009
Bree time: Nighttime <00:42:45> on Highday of Winter - January 6,1447
Moon Phase: Last Quarter Moon
Breelands Weather
The nighttime winter air is cold and dry around you. The dark sky is overcast and dreary.
===============================================================================
Yule is past, and January is here, dull and cold and drear. The promised heavy snow predicted back in November is yet to materialize, but it's /cold/. What better place, then, to spend the evening than in the Prancing Pony? Bree's famed hostelry is busy this evening, its tables and benches filled with local worthies holding forth about which barley makes the best beer, or laying bets on whose ewe will be the first to lamb.
Amidst the bustle, one small figure threads his way carefully, a mug of steaming mulled cider in one hand and a quill and ink-bottle in the other as he looks for some empty table space. Brandebras Bywater is obviously newly arrived, for his coat is still buttoned and his muffler still wound tightly round his neck, and he's starting to look even redder than usual about the cheeks.
[Rathos(#19023)]
It is into this comfortable setting that Rathos, the Dunlending woodsman, finds himself entering as he escapes the winter chill. He quickly removes his fur coat, revealing tattered, weather worn clothes, held together it would seem by a thick leather belt from which hangs a small pouch.
He strides purposefully to the bar and places a sizable order. His mood seems light, possibly because his pouch seems heavy. "Five to one odds, I tell ya. Luckiest day of me life...." His words becoming lost in the general din.
Soon, mug in hand, Rathos too is looking for a seat.
There is /one/ table with seats free - probably the grey-bearded fellow with his head pillowed on the hard wood, snoring gently, has something to do with that. One arm is outflung towards his empty mug a pipe, still smouldering slightly, rests near the other.
Brandebras gives the greybeard a dubious look, then sets his mug and ink-bottle carefully down before scrambling up onto a stool that makes him look incongruously tall. "Five to one on what?" he enquires cheerfully, through a mouthful of the muffler he's attempting to unwind. And ... yes, oh dear ... beside him is another empty seat.
[Rathos(#19023)]
"A dart game, little man." Rathos replies cheerfully taking full advantage of the empty seat. "My first one of the winter season. I've been traveling a lot recently, you see." The Dunlander looks over the table at the hobbit's work, "Them's some fancy scribbles. Are you a local elder or some such?" Rathos eyes show no signs of mockery, merly curiousity.
By now Brandebras has managed to pull his muffler free, and he's busy rolling it up. "Darts aren't luck," he objects. "You just need lots practise at throwing things. Everyone knows that. Did you come from the Shi-" It's at that point he actually looks up, and the words die on his lips as he stares at the wild-eyed, matted-hair figure before him. /That/ kind of traveller. His mouth forms a perfect round 'o', and the flush on his cheeks from the warm room fades a little.
When he's recovered enough to speak, he shakes his head, and gestures to his sleeping table-companion. "That's just Mister Rushroot." He seems to have misunderstood the question.
[Rathos(#19023)]
Rathos takes a hefty chug of ale, taking the hobbit's surprise in good measure. "Oh? Really?" A look of abject confusion dances breifly across the southerners craggy features. "Hmm. Fair enough then. And aye, your right. Just so happens the luck I had in finding some young men who thought different. Cost them a pretty copper penny, so it did. Still, I hear educations are expensive. Even in places as nice as this." Rathos finishes his mug in a second hearty swig before emiting a reasonable belch. "I could use another. Tell you what, little man. It so happens you find me in an usually generous mood and I hate to drink alone. Care for another round?"
Brandebras listens to Rathos' rolling speech, and his brow furrows. Maybe it's the foreigner's thick accent? But then he says, his tone one of abject puzzlement. "You came here for /education/?" Amazement at Outsiders and their queer ways echoes in every word.
Unlike Rathos, the hobbit sips carefully (mind you, that cider /is/ is scalding hot), and his mug is still mostly full when he's offered another. The hobbit hesitates, looking worried - what might this unruly fellow decide to do if he gets offended? - and then decides it's best to agree. "Y-yes, if you like," he stammers. "What brings you here to Bree?" Nervously he picks up his quill and starts to fiddle with it, though he doesn't add anything to the bit of parchment neatly weighted down by his ink bottle (which, if one looks closely, looks rather like a list).
[Rathos(#19023)]
"Great news!" Rathos exclaims, leaping to his feet.
He returns a few moments later with one large and one small mug of ale. "I told the barkeep that our table requirred attention. Dunno if that'll work round here." The dunlander settles into his chair before answering the hobbit's questions, placing the small mug within easy reach of the half-lings arms.
"I came north with my uncle and a good friend of mine. Winter on the farm is always rough so we sold up this year. Uncle just kinda tagged along." Rathos peers once more at the paper, "is it ye life story perhaps? I can't read you see."
Brandebras lets out a squeak as Rathos leaps up, and his formerly neat parchment is marred by a sudden ink-blot. "Oh dear," he murmurs, and starts dabbing at it with a corner of his handkerchief. By the time Rathos returns handkerchief, paper and Brandebras' own fingers are all stained blue-black. "Uh - thank you," the hobbit mumbles, pushing his old mug out of the way so he can politely take the new one. The motion sets the grey-beard's pipe rolling it comes to rest beside his slumbering head.
Rathos' story is seemingly a familiar one, for the hobbit nods. "It must be horrid living Outside." The final question brings on a sudden grin. "Oh, no no! It's just Aunt Buttercup's shopping list - she's laid up with the winter snuffles, so I said I'd bring her messages round first thing tomorrow," Brandebras explains. "I run errands for folk. But if you want life stories you should speak to my Da. He's writing a book - the Annals of Bree," he announces proudly.
[Rathos(#19023)]
Rathos laughs, "seeking them? no. Although, perhaps there could be some use I could find for it." He eyes the mess a tad wearily, hiding a chuckle. "The outside world is somewhat.... rougher. Yes. But it has it's charms. My name is Rathos by the by. What's yours, little man?"
"Brandebras Bywater, Messenger and Errand-Runner," the hobbit announces proudly. "Brother to the former Mayor, you know." At that, someone at thte next table snickers, and Brandebras' cheeks turn a little more rosy. "Is your friend the other di-" he stumbles over his words suddenly, and 'rosy' becomes 'flame-red'. "Uh, I mean the other Outsider that's been seen round here? The one who wanted to pick a fight with Nob?"
Across the table, a most peculiar smell is rising. It is rather like singed hair.
[Rathos(#19023)]
Rathos nods, "it's possible. My /friend/ is admitidly a handfull at times." The Dunlending looks across the table and leaps to his feet in shock, "Hell below!"
Brandebras blushes more than ever, if that is possible. "I didn't mean - what?" He stares at the Dunlending, eyes round with puzzlement. There is a moment's silence then all becomes clear.
There is a sudden stirring, a sudden twitching from the slumbering greybeard. "Fire," comes a mumble, and then louder, "FIRE!" He jerks bolt-upright, patting frantically at his long beard, which - yes - now indeed bears a telltale singed patch. Brandebras, caught in the oldster's glare, stares in horror. "But I didn't - I mean, it wasn't - " Running out of Useful Things to say, the hobbit does the next best thing he can think of - he flees, leaving a half-full mug, an ink-bottle and Aunt Buttercup's shopping list behind him.
Rathos looks over at the singed greybeard and shrugs, "smoking kills." He then picks up the smudged peice of paper and follows the trail of the startled hobbit.
As Rathos too departs the room, the mutterings start to rise. Some folk tut-tut openly at 'that scatterbrained hobbit', but all too many (and especially those who've found themselves a few coins poorer this evening) are happy to set the blame squarely on 'that good-for-nothing Outsider'. And so, in this little corner of Middle-Earth, another piece of fine gossip is born ...
This large and rectangular room serves the purpose of Common Room for the Prancing Pony. Large windows along the western end of the room peek out over the Great East Road which runs outside the Inn. There are long tables with bench seats for the patrons in the centre of the room. Nestled into the wall is a large fireplace with several bundles of wood piled next to it. Overhead, lamps hang down from roof beams, but their light is dim and half-veiled in smoke. The corners of the room are wrapped in shadow.
Obvious exits:
Out
================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Mon May 25 05:54:15 2009
Bree time: Nighttime <00:42:45> on Highday of Winter - January 6,1447
Moon Phase: Last Quarter Moon
Breelands Weather
The nighttime winter air is cold and dry around you. The dark sky is overcast and dreary.
===============================================================================
Yule is past, and January is here, dull and cold and drear. The promised heavy snow predicted back in November is yet to materialize, but it's /cold/. What better place, then, to spend the evening than in the Prancing Pony? Bree's famed hostelry is busy this evening, its tables and benches filled with local worthies holding forth about which barley makes the best beer, or laying bets on whose ewe will be the first to lamb.
Amidst the bustle, one small figure threads his way carefully, a mug of steaming mulled cider in one hand and a quill and ink-bottle in the other as he looks for some empty table space. Brandebras Bywater is obviously newly arrived, for his coat is still buttoned and his muffler still wound tightly round his neck, and he's starting to look even redder than usual about the cheeks.
[Rathos(#19023)]
It is into this comfortable setting that Rathos, the Dunlending woodsman, finds himself entering as he escapes the winter chill. He quickly removes his fur coat, revealing tattered, weather worn clothes, held together it would seem by a thick leather belt from which hangs a small pouch.
He strides purposefully to the bar and places a sizable order. His mood seems light, possibly because his pouch seems heavy. "Five to one odds, I tell ya. Luckiest day of me life...." His words becoming lost in the general din.
Soon, mug in hand, Rathos too is looking for a seat.
There is /one/ table with seats free - probably the grey-bearded fellow with his head pillowed on the hard wood, snoring gently, has something to do with that. One arm is outflung towards his empty mug a pipe, still smouldering slightly, rests near the other.
Brandebras gives the greybeard a dubious look, then sets his mug and ink-bottle carefully down before scrambling up onto a stool that makes him look incongruously tall. "Five to one on what?" he enquires cheerfully, through a mouthful of the muffler he's attempting to unwind. And ... yes, oh dear ... beside him is another empty seat.
[Rathos(#19023)]
"A dart game, little man." Rathos replies cheerfully taking full advantage of the empty seat. "My first one of the winter season. I've been traveling a lot recently, you see." The Dunlander looks over the table at the hobbit's work, "Them's some fancy scribbles. Are you a local elder or some such?" Rathos eyes show no signs of mockery, merly curiousity.
By now Brandebras has managed to pull his muffler free, and he's busy rolling it up. "Darts aren't luck," he objects. "You just need lots practise at throwing things. Everyone knows that. Did you come from the Shi-" It's at that point he actually looks up, and the words die on his lips as he stares at the wild-eyed, matted-hair figure before him. /That/ kind of traveller. His mouth forms a perfect round 'o', and the flush on his cheeks from the warm room fades a little.
When he's recovered enough to speak, he shakes his head, and gestures to his sleeping table-companion. "That's just Mister Rushroot." He seems to have misunderstood the question.
[Rathos(#19023)]
Rathos takes a hefty chug of ale, taking the hobbit's surprise in good measure. "Oh? Really?" A look of abject confusion dances breifly across the southerners craggy features. "Hmm. Fair enough then. And aye, your right. Just so happens the luck I had in finding some young men who thought different. Cost them a pretty copper penny, so it did. Still, I hear educations are expensive. Even in places as nice as this." Rathos finishes his mug in a second hearty swig before emiting a reasonable belch. "I could use another. Tell you what, little man. It so happens you find me in an usually generous mood and I hate to drink alone. Care for another round?"
Brandebras listens to Rathos' rolling speech, and his brow furrows. Maybe it's the foreigner's thick accent? But then he says, his tone one of abject puzzlement. "You came here for /education/?" Amazement at Outsiders and their queer ways echoes in every word.
Unlike Rathos, the hobbit sips carefully (mind you, that cider /is/ is scalding hot), and his mug is still mostly full when he's offered another. The hobbit hesitates, looking worried - what might this unruly fellow decide to do if he gets offended? - and then decides it's best to agree. "Y-yes, if you like," he stammers. "What brings you here to Bree?" Nervously he picks up his quill and starts to fiddle with it, though he doesn't add anything to the bit of parchment neatly weighted down by his ink bottle (which, if one looks closely, looks rather like a list).
[Rathos(#19023)]
"Great news!" Rathos exclaims, leaping to his feet.
He returns a few moments later with one large and one small mug of ale. "I told the barkeep that our table requirred attention. Dunno if that'll work round here." The dunlander settles into his chair before answering the hobbit's questions, placing the small mug within easy reach of the half-lings arms.
"I came north with my uncle and a good friend of mine. Winter on the farm is always rough so we sold up this year. Uncle just kinda tagged along." Rathos peers once more at the paper, "is it ye life story perhaps? I can't read you see."
Brandebras lets out a squeak as Rathos leaps up, and his formerly neat parchment is marred by a sudden ink-blot. "Oh dear," he murmurs, and starts dabbing at it with a corner of his handkerchief. By the time Rathos returns handkerchief, paper and Brandebras' own fingers are all stained blue-black. "Uh - thank you," the hobbit mumbles, pushing his old mug out of the way so he can politely take the new one. The motion sets the grey-beard's pipe rolling it comes to rest beside his slumbering head.
Rathos' story is seemingly a familiar one, for the hobbit nods. "It must be horrid living Outside." The final question brings on a sudden grin. "Oh, no no! It's just Aunt Buttercup's shopping list - she's laid up with the winter snuffles, so I said I'd bring her messages round first thing tomorrow," Brandebras explains. "I run errands for folk. But if you want life stories you should speak to my Da. He's writing a book - the Annals of Bree," he announces proudly.
[Rathos(#19023)]
Rathos laughs, "seeking them? no. Although, perhaps there could be some use I could find for it." He eyes the mess a tad wearily, hiding a chuckle. "The outside world is somewhat.... rougher. Yes. But it has it's charms. My name is Rathos by the by. What's yours, little man?"
"Brandebras Bywater, Messenger and Errand-Runner," the hobbit announces proudly. "Brother to the former Mayor, you know." At that, someone at thte next table snickers, and Brandebras' cheeks turn a little more rosy. "Is your friend the other di-" he stumbles over his words suddenly, and 'rosy' becomes 'flame-red'. "Uh, I mean the other Outsider that's been seen round here? The one who wanted to pick a fight with Nob?"
Across the table, a most peculiar smell is rising. It is rather like singed hair.
[Rathos(#19023)]
Rathos nods, "it's possible. My /friend/ is admitidly a handfull at times." The Dunlending looks across the table and leaps to his feet in shock, "Hell below!"
Brandebras blushes more than ever, if that is possible. "I didn't mean - what?" He stares at the Dunlending, eyes round with puzzlement. There is a moment's silence then all becomes clear.
There is a sudden stirring, a sudden twitching from the slumbering greybeard. "Fire," comes a mumble, and then louder, "FIRE!" He jerks bolt-upright, patting frantically at his long beard, which - yes - now indeed bears a telltale singed patch. Brandebras, caught in the oldster's glare, stares in horror. "But I didn't - I mean, it wasn't - " Running out of Useful Things to say, the hobbit does the next best thing he can think of - he flees, leaving a half-full mug, an ink-bottle and Aunt Buttercup's shopping list behind him.
Rathos looks over at the singed greybeard and shrugs, "smoking kills." He then picks up the smudged peice of paper and follows the trail of the startled hobbit.
As Rathos too departs the room, the mutterings start to rise. Some folk tut-tut openly at 'that scatterbrained hobbit', but all too many (and especially those who've found themselves a few coins poorer this evening) are happy to set the blame squarely on 'that good-for-nothing Outsider'. And so, in this little corner of Middle-Earth, another piece of fine gossip is born ...
Players: Brandebras, Rathos
Located in: Breefolk | Dunlending
