Raffles

Raffles yawned as he wandered into the main bar area of the pony, it had been long evening yesterday, listening to Barliman go into great detail about the shortcomings and general lack of professionalism of apparently all the nearby Inns and Hostelries, following the visit of Maddoc from the Crossways House.

“Morning Waffles” Barliman called

Raffles immediately thought of second breakfast.

“Come over”

Producing what looked like coffee and, not a plate of waffles, but muffins…  he beckoned to Raffles.

“Straight to my face, bold as you like… watery indeed!”

Barliman was not best pleased, as Raffles had come to understand, in great detail, over the last hour or so.

Maddoc from the Crossways House had paid a visit, and as usual, following any impromptu encounters with an innkeeper, Barliman was in a dark mood. Inn-keeping seemed to be a very competitive business.

He sensed Barliman was about to loop round the story yet again…

“Scrap”

Raffles felt a little deflated.

He had been on a small flight of fancy that this might be a long lost relic or blade of legend…

“It’s useless?” He asked more in hope than expectation.

It had been a long day, and he was tired, but sensing the hobbits’ disappointment, the weapon-smiths mood softened… just a little… “Well not totally, it will clean up and hold an edge… but its pretty low grade metal, and the craftsmanship is a little ‘rustic’ shall we say…“

Raffles shifted from one foot to the other, he was trying to listen politely, but was almost bursting to get on to his next visits…

He’d only popped into the crafting hall to speak with Madge, the resident jeweller, about his haul of gems and the little bags of tools he had ‘found’.

On his way out, he had been accosted by Old Roger Sorrel and Edwin Leafwood, who seemed to be on some sort of crafting guild recruitment drive.

Raffles was very pleased with himself, he couldn’t wait to get back to the Pony to see the results of his first haul, almost sprinting up the steps he pushed open the door a little too forcefully and stumbled through, making a beeline for the bar.

“Good evening Barliman! An ale please, and one for yourself too!”

“Evening Rollo, that's good of you, to what do I owe this generosity?”

Raffles entered the main bar area of the pony that morning in good spirits...

He was well rested, well fed and hopeful for the day ahead. 

Barliman had tipped him off that Leecher Cartwell, in Combe, might be interested in some of his finds from the marshes... the thought of a positive result from that particular debacle would have been enough to lift his mood by itself ... but at breakfast Aggie had handed him an envelope, the contents of which were a few silver coins and a rather lengthy note of apology from Eldo Swatmidge.

Barliman Butterburr murmured a suitably non-committal response, with the practised ease of someone used to listening in to at least three conversations at once, whilst tending bar, and feigning interest in yet another would be adventurers tales. His eyes and ears taking in just enough information to stay abreast of the various conversations, shifting his focus to where it was most needed... or the juiciest information could be gleaned.

Raffles didn't notice, or if he did, he wasn't offended, and carried on

'Ate all my sausages she did'

Raffles stumped through the staddle gate and down into Bree, his brow furrowed, carrying the general demeanour of a hobbit that has not only missed lunch and afternoon tea, but one who had now found out that his dinner has been burnt as well.

He hadn’t imagined the life of an adventurer would be quite like this when he set out from Stock on the long walk to Bree.