A Rainy Night at the Pony

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Mirimaran
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A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

(Translator's Note- from The Leavings of Daffodil Underhill comes her recollection of meeting the Ranger Mirimaran one night at the Prancing Pony. Consider this part one. Translating is hard (and thirsty) work!)

A Rainy night at the Pony

"Headed North."

The words came slowly from the old Ranger as he slipped into sleep, his long legs crossed near the fireplace that tried to flame but only sputtered as rain dripped down the ancient stone chimney to pop and sizzle. It had been raining for close to three days; a huge storm that roared from the South like the wrath of some ancient beast, throwing all in the North into disarray. Bree, now like some island fastness in the middle of the gale, was a refuge for Men and hobbits alike, for most of the halflings had abandoned their holes and fled to the hill in search of shelter. The Prancing Pony was now full of hobbit families, cold, tired, and of course, hungry. Old Butterbur was beside himself as he and the few who had stayed to work tried to accommodate his guests, but in the far corner, one old Ranger had commandeered a high backed chair, claimed a spot near the fireplace, and now kept a tired watch over his two young charges, both wrapped in blankets and cloaks, sound asleep at the luring of his words.

The Ranger, his grey cloak faded and frayed, had his hood pulled close as he touched chin to chest. Across his lap lay his sword, one hand on the hilt, the other holding his money purse. More than once had someone tried to use the weather as an opportunity for theft. He himself had launched a cut-purse from the great oak doorway the day before, watching him crash to the muddy road with a loud splat. He could remember the days when Men could travel to Bree with little fear for life and coin; now the days grew darker and as the rain blew against the small glass windows he worried for the young boys at his feet. Soon they would be of age, and take up the mantle of Ranger as he and his fellows would see the fading days of their lives end with old age or grim death in some far off place.

A dream was coming to him, as the air about him grew warmer, and the din of voices settled and grew faint. Days from his faraway youth, happier, full of bravado and drink, when his mother wrapped his first cloak around his shoulders and declared him a Ranger. There was a smell in the air, cooking, a scent of cinnamon that took him to a kitchen long since abandoned, and to a small child with bright eyes that knew no evil thing in the world, only that his mother made the best biscuits in all the land. A man, tall and grim, walked past the child, kissed his mother, and left the kitchen, never to return. Such days as these...

There was a tug, and from the vault of sleep he sprang awake, the sword flashing like the lightning outside. Teeth set and eyes wide, he searched for a thief, but before him stood a wide-eyed hobbit girl, her small fingers still wrapped in the muddy hem of his cloak. Her hair hung in damp ringlets, her deep brown eyes like pools in the firelight, her blue dress and apron tied with red ribbons too bright for the darkened common room of the Pony.

There were few times in the old Ranger's life where he had been genuinely surprised, but this was one of them. Finally she spoke, her voice like a clear bell in the sea of shouting and carousing around them. He blinked as she asked,

"What happened next?"

The Ranger pushed back the hood of his cloak, his gray hair spilling out. Slowly he pushed the sword home in the scabbard, and released his grip on the hilt.

"What?" he managed, his own voice low and gruff, used to asking questions more than answering them.

"You went North, you said. What happened next?" The hobbit girl let of his cloak and then sat on a low stool beside his leg, her face turned up as she asked. Her eyes seemed to dance in anticipation.

"You were...listening?" he asked, and in reply she nodded with a bounce of curls.

"I love stories", she said, "all sorts of them. Tales, poems, lays, riddles, I like to write them down."

"Write them down", he repeated, a rare smile coming to his lips, "a most unusual hobbit you are."

She nodded and produced a large (for her size) book, leather bound and gilt-edged, and then she turned the pages and held it up for him to see.

"My Leavings", she said, as he peered down at the small, precise script that flowed across the pages, "I intend to become a writer of tales."

"Oh my", he replied, "what is the world coming to?"

"To me, of course", she said matter-of-factly, closing the book and picking up a mug of sweetmilk. She sipped and then asked,

"Don't your people write things down?"

He nodded, taking up a great tankard and draining the rest of his ale. He swung his arm towards Butterbur, but the man seemed not to notice.

"Bah! The man's a fool", he muttered, and then he replied,

"Of course we do, but I doubt our tales are for ears such as yours. Might make for dry reading."

"Oh, but I love adventure tales!" she exclaimed, leaning closer, "I am a Took, on my mother's side."

He nodded, for he had his share of encounters with the Little Folk, and the queerest of all the Halflings were Tooks.

"Who are you?" he asked. She stood and did a short curtsy.

"My apologies, Master Watcher. I am Daffodil Underhill of Staddle, daughter of Otto and Marigold." She pointed to a low long table where two fat hobbits snored over empty plates, a full half dozen plump hobbit children laying asleep in their ample laps.

"Well met, Mistress Underhill, are you adopted?"

Her hands flew to her mouth as a giggle escaped like a twisting cat. The Ranger smiled down at her, a hobbit child so fair and features so graceful that she seemed more fay than mortal.

"No, my dear sir, I am not", she replied, "I am told that I resemble the great Belladonna, but I am too humble to accept the compliement. Still, Dad says I don't eat enough to attract suitors."

"Suitors? You can't be of age."

She nodded. "Seventeen summers have passed since my birth. Our hole, the biggest in Staddle, is a bit cramped and I think that Father and Mother need the room."

"Such is the life of a hobbit author", said the Ranger, as he made a wild gesture at Butterbur, holding his empty mug upside down. The fat innkeeper nodded, but then the great door opened and a troop of dwarves piled in, their bright hoods dripping from the pouring rain.

"Don't let them stay", groaned the Ranger, as he saw Butterbur sweep them in as he shut the door.

"Do you not like dwarves?" asked Daffodil.

"Oh, I like them good enough, stout fighters, loyal to the end, and great storytellers as well." His eyes were fixed on Butterbur as one of the wet dwarves pressed money into his hand. He led them off to the parlour.

"But why then?"

"The ale", groaned the Ranger, "they will drink all the bloody ale."
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
Jon
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Jon »

Im liking it :D

Life before Death.
Strength before Weakness.
Journey before Destination.
kaelln

Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by kaelln »

More! :!: :!: :!:
(Please!)
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Greg
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Greg »

...and if ever there WAS a merry troop to drain the pony of its spirits, of dwarves it surely would be! Wonderful, Ken!
Now the sword shall come from under the cloak.
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Elleth
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Elleth »

Oh, that's fun! Thank you. :)
Persona: Aerlinneth, Dúnedain of Amon Lendel c. TA 3010.
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Mirimaran
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

Daffodil took time to sip her sweetmilk and study the ragged man who sat before her. He was dressed rather plainly, she thought at first, but it was only after her eyes strained in the glow of firelight that she could make out the finer details of his garments. His faded green shirt had seen better days, to be sure, but from what she could see some splendid lady must have made it for him in the long ago of his youth. The fine stitching and embroidery on his sleeves and collar were faded and thread-bare, but still retained their beauty. She could also see repairs made by a far less sure hand; crooked seams and whips of raw thread that seemed out of place on such a shirt. He must treasure it, she thought, for other men would have long since found a replacement. His hosen were of the same condition; dirty, torn from branches and briers, and patched with leather and linen. He wore high topped boots of leather, also colored by mud and sweat, the ties of cracked leather bound here and there in small knots. His grey cloak was slung behind him somewhat, giving the appearance of folded wings, and his deep hood still kept his face in shadow. A wide leather belt, the buckle of some foreign make, was snug around his waist, a worn and stained pouch suspended from it, and she now took notice of the broadsword that slept in its scabbard across his lap. The hilt was worn, the leather wrap thin and slick from use, the heavy pommel dinged and scraped, probably across some goblin's head, she thought, and the old leather scabbard was void of decoration except for a faded star of silver near the throat. He wore leather gloves, and each one was ragged as well, missing fingers, the knuckles quilted and padded.

"Do I pass your muster, Mistress Underhill?", he asked, catching the wide eyed hobbit in mid-stare. She lowered her half-pint and could only nod, and then she blustered,

"You are the very epitome of adventure, sir!"

He then laughed, and it must have been a thing rarely seen in the Pony, for Butterbur and several of the local patrons stopped their mindless chatter about the rain and stared in his direction for a long moment, and then went back to their business, talking about him, no doubt.

"Oh, that's a thing! For in this house I am called vagabond and skulker, homeless and shunned, but yet one hobbit lass can see the forest for the trees!"

"A disguise", she said, a wide smile on her face.

"Perhaps", he replied, taking out a pipe from his pocket and stuffing it with weed. "Mayhap I just play the role that others expect of me, as do we all at one time or another in our lives, do we not?"

"I don't understand", she said, and then Daffodil ran to the fireplace and took up a long punk from a box and lit it, bringing it back to the Ranger.

"Many thanks", he said, as he fired up his pipe, smoke rising from the worn and blackened bowl.

"Here I am, an old and luckless man", the Ranger said, drawing on the pipe, "with not but a few pennies and too many memories to make my way in the world. Here, I am seen as a tolerated nuisance, because I can pay for drink and food. On the streets others cross so that they will not meet me, I am told at the gates more often than not that I am not welcome, but out in the Wild, my dear..."

"Yes?" she leaned forward, entranced. He leaned forward also and said very quietly, the smoke of his pipe making a canopy over the both of them,

"Out in the Wild, a ragged man may be a King."
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
kaelln

Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by kaelln »

Oh, this just gets better and better!
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Cleddyf »

wow...this is really good......
is there more to come?
Jon
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Jon »

I am hereby CRAVING for more.

Life before Death.
Strength before Weakness.
Journey before Destination.
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Mirimaran
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

Many thanks friends. It is no easy task to translate the works of Mistress Underhill but I am doing my best for you guys. I do know how the story ends and will endeavor to try and do it justice!
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Mirimaran
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

---------------

She blinked for a moment and then a slow, wide smile crossed her face.

"A King? Really?" she asked.

"I said, may be a King", he replied, settling back in his high back chair, "the plains like a royal carpet, the woods greater than any palace, you have no idea, Mistress hobbit, what the Wilds are like."

"Oh, tell me dear sir!" she exclaimed, "What are they like?"

He thought for a minute and then said,

"It is like being the only person alive, sometimes, you go into the lonely places of the world, and trek forgotten paths. You pass from memory, almost, and if you don't mind yourself, you might just disappear forever."

"Are there...dangers?", she asked, her tone low, almost a whisper.

"Oh plenty", he said, tugging at his pipe, "orcs and trolls and wolves that would rend you limb from limb! Far away from this happy place, I tell you!"

"You guard against those things?"

He nodded.

"We Rangers few stand against all that threaten the North."

"I had no idea", she said, a bit nervously, sipping on the sweetmilk, "that danger lurked so close."

He sprang up from his seat, his hooded visage so close to hers that the tattered cloth touched her nose. Her eyes grew as wide as saucers as he exclaimed,

"That is exactly the idea, Mistress Underhill! For while you sit and sip, out there, in the dark and rainy night, stand men grim and proud, last of the line of Numenor! Their spears and bows always at the ready! They fight and die so that each day you and your folk draw a breath it is one of freedom, and not in bondage and servitude. None now know the tales of those men, save one of their kinsman."

He settled back, and he lowered his head.

"Even one such as me, who has lived a long life, and lost many friends over the years, the tales and songs I have made for brothers and sons and daughters, lost and forgotten by many, I am the last who can call their names in the moonlit nights of June, who can still remember the faces of the Dunedain in the days of their youth. That too, Daffodil, is a part of the Longing Lonely of the Ranger."

She lowered her mug and stood, and bowed deeply.

"My apologies sir, for my ignorance."

He placed a hand on her shoulder and said kindly,

"No apologies necessary, little one, for what is the duty of my race if not to keep such a happy folk as you safe from the dangers of the World? What a loss indeed it would be if hobbits disappeared from the lands of Middle-earth."

She smiled and sat back down. She thought for a moment, and then asked,

"Why don't you just write your songs and tales down?"

He smiled and replied,

"I've never found the time."
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
kaelln

Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by kaelln »

Hmmm, I think I see where this is going. Excellent! And when Mistress Daffodill's tales are all translated, there should be some way to get them out to the wider world. We'll have to think of a way to do that without invoking the hordes of the Orcs of Armani, or in their tongue, L'aw Yers.
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Mirimaran
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

That would be fun indeed, Kaelin, but I have no idea how the Estate looks to folks who fan-fic their property LOL I am enjoying the conceit, however. I can see why Tolkien enjoyed using it so much. I'll have to get around to finishing this little tale so I can see if you like how it went 8)
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Mirimaran
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

Butterbur made his way through the crowd and finally stood red-faced in front of the pair.

"My pardons", he wheezed, "it has been quite a night. I am sorry to say that the ale is in short supply, owing to an unexpected party."

"Dwarves", muttered the Ranger, "you know, 'The Hammer and Anvil' is just down the lane. Caters to the bearded folk."

"Ah, but they pay well. And up front!" countered Butterbur. The Ranger sighed and reached into his pouch, retrieving three silver coins. Daffodil peered over his hand at the exotic currency. Each was marked in strange writing, and had horses deeply stamped into the precious metal.

"Coins of the Mark", said the Ranger, "they ought to be worth a trip to the cellar where you hoard all the good stuff." Daffodil cleared her throat, and absently swirled the dregs of her sweetmilk.

"Oh, and Mistress Daffodil needs more sweetmilk. I have no idea why."

"And honeycakes", she added, a little smile on her face.

"Running low on everything", he muttered, but he snatched up the coins, bit each one and grunted his satisfaction, and then hurried towards the kitchen.

"Have the pretty girl bring my ale!", shouted the Ranger at Butterbur's back, "the one with the long brown hair!" But Butterbur was long gone, no doubt down in the immense cellar of the Pony.

"With my luck, that old bat will tend to us", he said.

"What's wrong with that?" asked Daffodil.

"She has a long memory", he replied.

"Those coins, you said they were of the Mark?"

"Yes", said the Ranger, tending to his pipe, "of Rohan. Home of the Horse Lords."

Daffodil's eyes widened.

"You've...been to Rohan?" She hurriedly opened her book, wet her quill and stared at him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I am fully prepared to note and document this adventure of yours to Rohan", she said, her voice full of manic energy, "and please give descriptions. I will embellish later if need be."

The Ranger chuckled.

"You're going to write down about the time I had to go to Rohan."

"Yes."

"Very little adventure in it."

"Not a problem", she replied, "again, we can dress it up a little."

The Ranger stopped tugging his pipe and coughed.

" 'Dress it up'? For whom, dear Mistress Hobbit, are my tales being trussed up for?"

"The reading public, my dear adventurer", she said, starting a page, "you and your kin might go about singing songs under the moon and what have you, but here in Bree we do have a bit of learning, and a good read is few and far between. Do you know what books interest Hobbits the most?"

"I suppose I am going to find out", he sighed.

"Cookbooks! Can you believe that? All of Middle-earth out there, a land like Rohan, where Men ride horses from the moment they are born, and cookbooks outsell adventure stories. My word", she said, shaking her head, "we are about to change all that!"
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
Jon
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Jon »

A very talented Mirimaran.

Life before Death.
Strength before Weakness.
Journey before Destination.
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