Pelaphor

Pelaphor stared bitterly into the thick brown liquid that was considered beer by the owner of the inn, Anlaf the forlorn. He must have lost all hope of ever making a good brew and thus he is called thought the Gondorian. He was in a foul mood from the visit of his so called Sergeant who had forbidden him from accepting bribes off the merchants whom he was escorting between the borders of Bree and the current ruin-hold of the Eglain, Ost Guruth. Things had been going quite well, the ruffians were happy with his command so long as he was seen as a gift giver, a bringer of wealth.

Pelaphor lounged back in his chair and took in the sights of the tavern. The comb and wattle was the sort of place he liked, people didnt come here to sing songs or ask questions they came to drink quietly and mind their own business. The forlorn looking innkeep was wiping down the bar, sweat dripping down her forhead muttering about how the comb was just as good as the pony, the thought almost made Pelaphor chuckle as he doubted many of the pony's residents would be found here at any time, unless you counted the corpses that turned up in the rooms sometimes.

As you leave the muddy beaten track lane that leads down from the high road onto chestnut street you behold a small semi-circlular ruin. The ruin is old and browned by the ages, creeping plants, leaves and small bushes sit about the damaged archiec stairs that lead on to a small platform marked by the etching of a star long faded.