The early night spring air is cool but pleasant around you. The dark sky is overcast and dreary.
You open the door and enter the Common Room.
The early night finds a few people in the Pony finishing up their dinner, while others are enjoying an after meal drink. The door squeaks open, and Gerthan enters into the common room. He casts an eye around the room, nodding to a few locals, who looked up when the door opened. Not really paying much attention to the rest of the room, he walks over towards the bar and orders an ale.
The door makes the only sound of entry as a tall woman slips into the room. She glances around, bright eyes resting a moment on each face, and smiles as she makes her way to the bar.
Zebulon takes a lazy look at the new people ariving at the bar.
Throwing a few coins on the bar, Gerthan thanks the bartender as the bartender hands Gerthan a large mug of ale. Gerthan takes a long drink from it, and takes another look around the bar. His eyes stop on Narwen and he starts choking oh his ale.
With one brow raised, in concern or amusement, the woman pauses next to the sputtering man, and orders an ale of her own.
Still choking, seemingly to the amusement of all the patrons in the Common Room, Gerthan falls over, clutching his stomach. As he falls over, his barstool lands on top of him, making things worse.
Making a backwards leap to avoid splashing ale, the woman's agility and grace make themselves known through her every movement, until she collides with the other barstool, behind her. Another crash, another splash, and another person on the ground, burning with embarrassment.
Zebulon turns his chair to see the entertainment better.
Finally able to swallow and cough up the rest of his ale that was caught in his throat, Gerthan slowly rises up, pushing his barstool back up to its rightful place. He turns to Narwen, and openly stares at her, before regaining his senses. He bows slightly, and says, "My lady, please let me help you up," as he offers her his hand.
She accepts his proffered hand, staring back just long enough to make a point; but her expression quickly melts into a smile. "Thank you, good sir," she replies in gently lilting Westron. "It is the least you can do!"
Stooping down, Gerthan picks up Narwen's fallen chair and places it back at the bar. He looks down at the floor, before looking up to acknowledge Narwen's words. He stammers a little as he says, "I, I, I'm sorry lady. It's just that I never expected to see any of your fair race again, let alone here, in the Prancing Pony." He bows again, this time more deeply, and says, "I am Gerthan, a hunter in these parts, and if you need anything, please, just ask."
Brushing herself off, Narwen nods in response to Gerthan's words. "Indeed, I am surprised to see myself here! And aye, there is something you might do for me; my first ale is spilled across the floor." She waits, with an expectant smile.
Zebulon leans forward rubbing his brisly and looks thoughtfully at the elves.
Not even waiting to breath, Gerthan quickly orders another ale for the elven lady. He throws a few more coins on the bar, and hands her the new ale after it arrives. Looking down at the ground, he sneaks a few looks at the elven lady before asking, "Pardon me, lady, but I didn't catch your name."
Tall and slender, a maiden like a birch tree, with eyes that glow like
amber caught in the sunset, flashing green in their fiery depths. Her skin
is golden also, and strands of gold ray her chestnut hair. Her features
are fine, her eyes slanted, and she moves like a cat as well; sometimes
gamboling like a kitten, and sometimes prowling like a hunter.
The maiden takes a dainty sip of her drink before answering, "I don't
believe I 'threw' it. But I am Narwen Arorniel, Lalaithdis o Imladris.
And whom might you be?"
Scratching his chin, perhaps a little confused that Narwen could have missed his introduction, Gerthan clears his throat and says, "I am Gerthan Greenbriar. I am a hunter in these parts." He pauses, then adds, "And I must say, that Bree is graced by the presence of folk as fair as you."
Narwen laughs, with an airy wave of one slender hand. "Thank you, Gerthan, such flattery becomes you." She takes another drink of her ale and wrinkles her nose before continuing. "So strong, this ale of yours! Tell me of your charming town, will you not?"
Blushing, a bit, Gerthan says, "Sure, Narwen." He pauses, looking to her, to see if she minds his use of her name, before continuing. "Well, there's not a lot to tell here, I'm afraid. This is a rather quiet town, though we have been getting a lot of riff-raff in from the south lately."
A line mars the smoothness of her forehead, as Narwen asks quizzically, "Riff-raff? What ever is that?"
Blushing some more, Gerthan says, "Oh, it is just another word for ruffians and rabble rousers. People I'm sure that never visit your home."
Narwen smiles, seemingly pleased at the blush, "Oh," she says, with a laugh, "We have our own ruffians, as you say, though perhaps not quite the same as those here. But no matter. Have you lived here all your life?"
Nodding, Gerthan says, "Aye. Indeed I have. Though I do get out and travel more than most other Breefolk here. In fact, it was on Weathertop, where I first meet your kin."
Narwen says, "Ah, a friend of our people, then?"
Continuing to blush, which is something out of character for Gerthan, he nods and says, "Well, I like to think so. I found an old bracelet your people had made in the days when the world was still young. Of course, I had no claim on such a prize as that, and some of your kin approached me when they found out I had it. I turned it over to them, obviously. As you may have noticed, this cloak was made by your kin, and was a gift from them." He seems to start to say something else, but instead places his hand on his cheek, with a far off look in his eyes.
Narwen nods, glancing at the cloak in question. "It is lovely, and well made, indeed. It is a pleasure to meet one so friendly to our people. Be certain that they appreciate it."
Perhaps getting a little courage, Gerthan asks, "Tell me, if you will,
what brings you to Bree? And also, are there more of your kin here or have
you journeyed here alone?" It seems as if Gerthan has twenty other questions
ready to ask, but he stops after only a few.