The Prancing Pony

After meeting with Gerwolf, I made my way to the Prancing Pony Inn, planning to spend one last night in comfort before returning to Thorins Halls.   I pulled open the tavern door, instantly struck by the smell of ale and burning pipe-weed, pushing my way through the crowds to the bar.  I was about to signal to the bartender so I could rent a room when I looked to my right and saw something that made my blood boil.

Milada stood there, draining the bottom of her tankard.

Milada, who had allied herself with Hughes.

The girl returned to Bree-town, as she intended. It was a difficult task for her. Every single step she took closer to the town felt heavier for her to take. Her feet started to feel weary and all she wished was to turn around and walk to an opposite direction, trying to find the mountain she was curious about. She was certain she wouldn’t make it, but perhaps the lack of sleep and eat had done its deeds.

What is an inn to a traveler? It is a place where one can drink, eat and communicate with others. It is a place that offers a shelter to those far away from their home. And it is a place where one can hear the latest news and gossips. Should a traveler arrive in Bree-town, the Prancing Pony, or shortly the Pony, is the first place to go to. Its ale is well known and warm atmosphere is one of a kind. It is a place where I first headed to when I arrived to Bree-town, and where I much later worked as a barmaid. And it is a place that sometimes seemed to be a center of happenings.

     Walking into the Inn, Dieudonnae was unable to conceal her disdain for its occupants. For seated at the tables were rogues, thieves, drunkards, and even shadier folk. She took one of the hard, wooden chairs, and sat in a corner near enough to the fireplace. She knit her brows and frowned, obviously expecting somebody and disturbed for their nonattendance.

The Elven Maiden, Winter, TA 3029.

Winter Solstice has recently passed, and still it feels like I am still witted by the sweet mead, and the stubborn ales.

Today I walked into the Prancing Pony for some more merriment and joy for this lovely season, listening to the tales and songs of various bards, raising a few tankards of mead, and to look (or maybe more) at fair maidens as well.

I'll be one o'the first to admit I haven't got a near penchant for the written art, Westron especially. Scholars and writers and book-keepers. Bah! I would not be writing this if it were not for the events at the Pony.

Oh, but events they were.