Fried Fish, Onions, and Strange Encounters - Part I



A short tale of the dealings with strange folk in the lands of Men between the mountains of Eriador, and also a celebration of the simple joys of life as seen from a minor company of dwarves (or "dwarrows" if you like).

 

... The run down and weather-beaten inn on the edge of the wilderness was not a merry sight for the weary dwarves - the puny roof-construction was all but spent and parts of it had fallen in. The inside was hardly more encouraging, the few, scattered patrons and odd travelers were in a sad state.

Looking for a warm hearth and a good cheer, three companions might have had better luck looking elsewhere; the three dwarves, Beigeldi, Svartskeggi, and Ryðskeggi, seemed quite unimpressed by the general appearance and specifically the badly constructed main building and the feeble warmth of its faintly lit fires.

"I had my hopes up for this place and it seemed to offer a welcome respite from the busy streets of Bree," said Svartskeggi, "but it seems we were better off in The Prancing Pony - Mr. Butterbur did say that he wouldn't mind having us longer and that we could keep the same room."

"Then let us by all means get going now that we may reach Bree again before nightfall!" said Beigeldi, arguably the most well-dressed of the company. His hood was of finer fabric and with neatly woven patterns of grey.

Svartskeggi and Ryðskeggi, black- and rust-coloured beards respectively, for so they were called and distinguished from each other (both otherwise named Skeggi), wore hoods of same design and shape, tight-fitting over their heads - one grey, the other faded blue. Beigeldi and Ryðskeggi both carried a variety of tools with them; pickaxes wood-cutting axes and spades - tucked away in or strapped to the saddle-bags of their ponies or carried with their backpacks. Svartskeggi bore a long hammer, resting on his shoulder. His pony also carried a short hunting-bow.

The company had reached the outskirts of the town of Bree when they came across a small pond; and as the day was nearing its end, the sun setting in the west, Ryðskeggi pulled out his fishing-rod and at the quiet anticipation of his companions he cast out the line with a wiggling rainworm attached to the small hook.

 

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