You step out of the foyer and enter the noisy common room.
Aranrais sits on a high stool, her small legs dangling and not close to touching the floor. She peers about the room, looking at the sooty beams and wrinkling her nose just a bit. The child looks to the Lord Silvarion, her nervousness, as well as her surprise at the strangeness quite apparent.
Seated at one of the small tables in the corner of the wide common room, a tall figure sips from a cup of wine in the shadows. Where the wild Rangers of the North often lurk, perhaps, so does he. He is cloaked in heavy robes of thick wool, despite the warming weather outside, and their bulk hides much about him. Yet when he leans down to whisper to the child, Aranrais, his shimmering hair catches some of the room's light even here.
"Are you enjoying your taste of the outside, child?"
The door to the Common Room squeaks open upon its hinges, and Gerthan enters into the room. He looks around the room and nods to a few of the locals in the Pony in the early morning. As he starts to make his way over to the bar, he stops when he notices that two elves are seated at a table in the corner. He blinks, but then continues over, and leans in over the bar, and grabs the sleeve of the bartender, Old Barliman, and places an order with him. He walks over to the elves and takes an empty seat at their table.
Aranrais bites her lip, and brushes her tangled curls back from her small, delicate face. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in the guests of all sorts and the strange accoutrements of the place. "Yes, Silvarion, I find it very...very interesting and wonderful. Everything I had hoped to see!" she says, her bravado undercut by her slightly nervous demeanor. She smiles broadly anyway, to mask that. Suddenly, when the large Man sits beside her, she startles, leaning in to get closer to Silvarion.
Silvarion raises an eyebrow as the man approaches, but merely watches him take his seat, and slowly sips his wine, his eyes never wavering. After a minute, he answers the child with, "Indeed, little one... Though it was a quiet journey, and you had many folk with you to see you were safe." Still his eyes are upon the man, thoughtful and speculative, until at last he says, "Greetings, stranger. You are welcome to our table."
Charles Cornfeet, A respected farmer walks into the Common Room looking for a bite to eat for an early supper. Setteling himself at the Bar he glances around the room and spots the Elves for the first time. Shuddering to himself as he thinks about something he turns his back coldly to them and orders a meal of Roast beef and a glass of ale. He glances nervously at the Elves and Gerthan every couple of moments but keeps to himself for the most part.
Even at this early hour in the Inn, the Common Room is certainly far from empty, though it is far from full as well. Near the hearth at one of the smaller round tables sits a fairly loud bunch of men talking amongst themselves. The look of each of them is fairly rugged and unkempt. Their outward appearance gives the impression that they are men of the woods, perhaps from Archet. Little can be heard of the details of the conversation, and in fact, they are hardly noticed until a short, burly man stands up from the table and points his finger at the strangers sitting next to Gerthan. "I haven't seen folk such funny dressed in all m' days here," he announces to those at his table, though his words can be heard clearly by everyone in the entire room, "and I been here for many years." He sits back down and mutters something about "their business here" but little more can be heard.
Nodding to Silvarion, Gerthan says, "Thank you. I'm not so usually forthright in coming up and taking a seat at a stranger's table, but I hope you'll pardon me. It's just that elves in Bree! In all my years, I never would have thought that such fair folk as yourself would grace us here with your presence." He takes a breath and says, "But I get ahead of myself and forget what little manners I may have. I am Gerthan, a hunter in these parts."
With an expression of dismay, at the large man and his outburst, the elf-child Aranrais sits in shocked silence at the man. Then, suddenly, in a fit of pique, she stands, and seems about to retort with some of her own sharp tongue. Just then, Gerthan speaks, and her mouth drops open. She sits abruptly, mumbling, "Good morning. I am Aranrais, of, of Imladris."
Shrugging his cloak more snugly about his shoulders, Silvarion frowns to himself and mutters, "So much for travelling inconspicuously..." Suppressing a sigh, the Noldo smiles once more to Gerthan, and says, "And I am called Silvarion, though my home is both in the west and the east, you might say. The east being the more current of the pair. My little companion introduced herself, of course; but tell me, for I am most curious... Do the folk of Bree still hold contact with elves, perhaps from the Havens? For nearly everyone has known at least what sort of folk we are, yet we almost invariably pass in secret past the cities of Men in these days."
Looking sadly at the elves, Gerthan says, "Nah. I'm afraid we Breefolk have hardly seen any elven folk pass through here, be it east or west. In fact, I've only seen elven folk in Bree this week, though I met some of your kin in the wilderness on Weathertop, before." He looks from one elf to the other, as if trying to burn their images into his head, for fear that he will wake up and find this all a dream. "I spoke to one of your kin earlier this week, Narwen, but she did not say why you were here in Bree. If I may ask, why are you here, in Bree?"
From the Bar, Charles keeps his ears open and hearing a quip about why the Elves are around Bree stands and lumbers over to there Table. "It probably has something to do with that writing on the Bill board out there, the stuff about staying inside and all. Its quite queer I should say." He says madly, rudly interupting the conversation. With this he grabs a chair and sits down joining the conversation.
A thinner, taller man at the table where the 'outburst' had occurred stands up after the burly man takes his seat. He gives the man a disapproving look, then makes his way over to where Gerthan and the elves are sitting. Upon reaching their table, he bows deeply, interrupting their conversation. "Pardon me, but I do want to apologize for my friend's behavior. We don't rightly see too many of your folk around here, so it's naturally out of the ordinary." Pausing for a moment, he remembers his manners. "I am Peter Thistlegrove, formerly of Archet. I have met some of your travelling companions, I believe, just a few nights ago down yonder on the Road..." he points off towards the South end of the Pony.
Aranrais pipes up, her clear tones carrying from the table in the corner down the length of the Common Room. "We are here to buy beer!" she says, with a giggle. Then, looking at the Lord by her side, she claps a hand over her mouth, and is silent. Her fair face glows in the firelight, and she smiles at Peter.
Silvarion bobs his head to Peter, and murmurs his answer softly, his musical voice muted in the common room. "Quite understandable... The contact between elves and men has fallen off in Eriador, save between the good Dunedain and we in Imladris. A great pity, that; the greatest works have always been when both of our..." He breaks off as the child bursts out, and gives her a most reproachful frown, yet conceeds, "She is right. We are here to purchase ale... for our soon to be guests from the Vales of Anduin."
Charles, now a tad embarased by his own behavior, apologizes, "You must forgive me, The note on the billboard out there chilled me to the bone, and I have not had very much success on the Farm as of late. But you must tell me, Why would you venture all the way from wherever it is you come from for Ale? Is Barlimans that good?" He adds the last in a bit of a hushed tone incase the owner takes offence to it.
Holding his head in his hands, obviously embarrased by his companions, Gerthan starts to apologize for their behavior, but stops when Charles starts to. He looks at Charles, perhaps not having any idea what he is talking about.
Peter listens to Silvarion's words. He looks confused and puzzled at what the elf is talking about, with his words like the 'Dunedain' and 'Imladris', words which only vaguely sound familiar to him, though evidently not used in his everyday speech as Silvarion was using them. He nods along, then at the mention of ale, replies with, "Ah, ale! Of course! You won't find finer ale anywhere this side of the Mountains. Barliman makes a fine brew, to be sure. Certainly tops even the finest of Shire ales, even on a bad day. But..." he ponders, "why would you come all this way from..." he scratches his beard, "well... wherever you came from, just for the beer? From what I know of you folk, you don't take much to the stuff, though you'll pardon my knowledge, of course. It is poor in this area, to be certain."
Aranrais looks up, grimacing at the look of reproach from Silvarion. "What was the note outside the Inn about?" she says in a near-whisper to her elder. "I couldn't read it." She doesn't speak to the others, merely regarding them in silence now.
Laughing merrily to himself, seemingly in great amusement, Silvarion exclaims, "Oh no no... You don't understand, I'm afraid. The ale isn't for us, but for our guests, the Beornings. I haven't drunk ale in... oh, it must be over six thousand years, now. Horrible dwarven stuff; never drink dwarven ale, if you ask my opinion. But the Beornings love their ale, and even in Imladris the Prancing Pony has a reputation for its ale. The Dunedain; forgive me, the Rangers as you call them, cannot praise it enough. We are here to purchase several casks of it... And I'm sorry, Aranrais, I did not pause to read it either."
Charles makes refrance to the note outside, "Well there seems to be in bright red writing a note scrawled across the board, 'Stay in doors' now I wonder what that would mean. Here of all places staying in doors. It's ubsurd!" Charles shakes his head and returns to his ale.
A plump hobbit waitress, looking a wee worried, and certainly faltering in her steps, walks over to the suddenly crowded table in the corner, with Gerthan's order of food. Gerthan seems to have forgotten about it, until it is suddenly placed before him. He smiles at the food, in spite of himself, and reaches into a pouch at his waist and produces a few coins which he places in the hobbit's hand. She seems all too eager to take the coin, and almost runs away from the table. Gerthan looks to the elves, and asks, "I hope that neither of you two mind, if I have a bite to eat? Are either of you two hungry, or thirsty perhaps?"
Aranrais looks at the exchange, curious, but is quiet as a mouse now, and simply sits, her legs dangling on the stool, as she listens to the elf-lord and the Breemen.
Peter scratches his beard again, which he apparently does quite frequently when he has cause to think about something. "Well, if you be needing ale, than you are most rightfully in the right place. Have you talked with ol' Barliman yet about the ale? I'm sure that he'd be wild for the added business and would be able to fulfill your entire order!" He looks about the room for the bartender/innkeeper. "He's usually somewhere around here, in either this room or that one. You never know with him..."
Silvarion shakes his head, and says, "No, but thank you; we broke our fast while most here still slept. I am used to eating with the dawn, I'm afraid, and habits are hard to break. As for Barliman... I have heard he is the owner of this establishment, but I have not yet met him, I'm afraid. It has been so long since I've been to an Inn, you understand. The most recent... I suppose would be in the Havens, which are northwest of the Shire. This brings back so many memories from the old days."
Right on cue, the door from the kitchen swings open widely, and a short old man with quite a gut on him strides quickly into the common room, balancing two or three trays covered with a handful of drinks each. He pauses a moment, and breathes quickls and loudly - like a dog panting for water - before taking a brave step into the throng of customers to hand out drinks. He speaks not... a strange occurrence for this well-known innkeeper. Moving from table to table, he seems to be in a pensive mood...not his normal boisterous self...
Through Silvarion's response, Peter continues his surveillance about the room. As the kitchen door brings the fat innkeeper forth, Peter's eyes widen in recognition. Almost immediately, paying little heed to the elf's words, he calls over to the innkeeper, "Barliman... Barliman!" He waves his hands in a signaling motion. "We have some visitors over here who have need of you!"
Nodding to Silvarion, Gerthan digs into his meal, and proceeds to ignore everyone around him.
Charles finishes up his ale and decides to make his leave, nodding to Peter and the rest at the table he gathers his things and heads off to the town for another day of work.
Charles steps through the open doorway that leads out to the Foyer.
Charles has left.
Barliman motions toward Peter, flashing a quick smiles before delivering all the remaining drinks on his trays. His forehead drips sweat as he finally makes his way to the table where Peter sits. Clapping him on the back, he nods and finally speaks, "Ah...and hullo there, Mister Thistlegrove, but what is it you speak of? I'm a busy man, you know? A very busy man!" He reaches out and sets the trays which were previously lined with drinks on the bar, and says, "Ahhh, here you are, Evan..." A barkeeper comes over and takes the trays into the kitchen, presumably to be covered once more in drinks. Barli turns his short attention back toward Peter.
Silvarion raises an eyebrow as the Innkeeper is identified to him, and slowly rises from his seat, stepping out of the shadows. His golden hair catches the light, and sparkles with, perhaps, some of the lost radience of the Trees of Valinor captured within. His dull cloak he leaves hooked over the back of his chair, and in his vestments of red and black he stands, inclining his head shortly to the fat innkeeper.
"Mister Butterbur," the Noldo calls politely to the owner, almost uncertainly. "I have come to see you about purchasing some ale..."
Peter motions Barliman towards the elf. Leaning closer to Barliman, he says in an undertone, "Not just a little bit of ale either, Barliman. He's buying for a large crowd, he says. He says he's from Rivendell, of all places! Have you ever heard of such a thing? People proclaiming themselves from such mythical places like this?"
Barliman is quite taken back. He looks up into the eyes of the elf, but only for a very brief snatch of a second. Lowering his gaze, he notices the hair of the person before him, and the garb. "Well, if I ain't..." He sputters a moment, and shakes his head clapping his palm to his brow and eyeing Peter sidelong. "Peter, man...you know what this here is, I suppose." Then, as if suddenly realizing his every word should be as reverent as possible, the Inkeeper puts both palms out flat defensively toward the elf, and stammers, "Of..of course I mean any and all respect to you and yours, traveler." He shakes his head once more, and cocks his head sideways just a touch, mumbling. "And come here, into the middle of Bree, looking for my ale. Not that it ain't good enough..."
Barliman, all of the sudden, curves both hands around the sides of his mouth and lifts up his head, calling suddenly with a volume surprising for a man of his age. "Nob, you woolyfoot! NOB!"
Laughing once more, this time as loudly as the next fellow in the common room, Silvarion says, "You're as charming as Mith... that is, as Gandalf said. Though Estel's description is a bit off, I think. No matter. You have a charming inn, mister Butterbur, that you do. I'm sorry if I come as a bit of a start; we normally do not come into the cities of Men. But we have a rather pressing need for large quantities of ale, and you are the most recommended source in the area. We are having guests from east of the Mountains, and it would not do to have them coming without enough ale; the Beornings do not much care for wine, more's the pity. We will pay well, if you can assist us..."
Finishing off the last scraps of food from his plate, Gerthan pushes it back from him, satisfied. He takes a drink of cider from a large mug, and looks around to find that he is alone at the table. Rising up, he makes his way over towards Barliman and Silvarion, taking a seat at the bar, where he quietly observes everyone in the room around him. He takes another drink, and pushes his stool a little off the ground.
As Barliman lifts up his hands once more to call for the hobbit who helps him 'round the Pony, Nob himself reaches up and taps the man in the small of his back, saying, "Yes Master Butterbur?" the hobbit looks particularly pleased with his lot in life, though he is practically a servant to this Innkeeper. Perhaps he receives ale as part of his salary. At any rate, Barliman turns around and looks sharply down at the hobbit with a smile, though a curt one. "There now, you slowcoach. Get you down to the cellar, and count my kegs - the best stuff, now, mind you...not any of that mud from the south! My ales...you take my meaning Nob? And back with you in a snap. These here are important folk, and friends of Gandalf, to boot!" He shoos the hobbit off with his hands. Looking up he gazes at the face of the Noldo once more, seeming pretty speechless for once. "East of the Mountains, you say...? I ain't done much travelin in my life, Mister Elf. But I'm smart enough to know that we ain't east of the mountains. Any folk from this direction gonna be at your party?"
Silvarion's lips quiver in amusement again at the interplay between Innkeeper and hobbit-helper, but he merely says, "Call me Silvarion, mister Butterbur; Mister Elf sounds very... Peculiar, if you take my meaning. As for this being a party... I'm afraid it is not, though I could wish it was. Rather we take council with our allies in war against the Shadow. But we should not discuss such matters in the morning; and the Shadow lies far away from Bree yet."
Shifting to glance back to the others at the table, the Noldo continues, "From this direction... Aye; the Dunedain, those you call the Rangers... They will be there, or at least a good many of them. Though many call Imladris, or Rivendell as you know it, home already."
Peter looks on with fascination of the current conversation between the elf and the innkeeper. Such unusual talk of 'councils' and 'the Shadow' evidently have sent his mind swimming, as he has said very little since their conversation began.
"Ah...yes." Barliman's voice lowers in volume, and he gazes about him, to see who is within earshot. Good folk to have among you, to be sure. And will there be any Breefolk at this meeting?" He pauses, and says, "Certainly not; I'm sure I would know of it by now." Of course Barliman doesn't realize his insolence...
Presently Nob returns to the side of his master and stands there, huffing and puffing - must be quite a trip to the cellars and back and full pace. "Master Butterbur..." he begins, and then bends double, attempting to catch his breath. He continues, "There's a full row and a half-dozen plus what's upstairs, sir...enough and more to send along whatever these folk need." The hobbit looks up at Barliman, and Barliman up at the elf. "Just how big a group -is- this, Mister Silvarion?"
Marianna enters the Common Room from the Water Closet.
Marianna has arrived.
"Breefolk?" Silvarion asks uncertainly, clearly surprised at the notion. "Ah... I was not aware that Bree was actively combatting the forces of the Shadow. Surely the reach of Mordor is not so long just yet; the Dunedain keep such things away from Bree and the Shire... I'm sure Master Elrond would not object, though it is unexpected..."
Gathering himself once more, the Lord pauses to consider the expected
size of the party from Anduin. "I would assume at least a dozen folk...
Sturdy men and women each; perhaps as many as two or three of Beorn's children
among them. We will need at least three casks, and four would be safer;
even dwarves cannot drink more than one of THOSE bunch."
Marianna enters the Common Room, tying on an apron and wandering around
the room to tidy up a bit.
"Well, I ain't too sure of what you mean by a shadow.." Barli's voice is joyful and implies that he is either completely ignorant about the heavy topic of conversation at hand, or is a very good actor. "But I know what the name Mordor means! And I'll bet if any of them...Mordorians every come a knockin on this Inn's big ole door, they'll get a lick from the heavy end of one of them logs over there!" Barli nods, gesturing toward a pile of firewood used to keep the room warm in winter.
"No, you're probably right. Nothing we'd be real interested in." He looks pensive, and nods, "Still though. I don't usually ship off that many kegs at a time, and my kegs are homemade, and stay 'round here to be reused. I'll need to get them back, somehow. I suppose it'll be easiest if we send a person or two with you, just to see that they get there good and to bring 'em back home."
Half lost in his mug of cider, Gerthan gets pulled into the conversation and almost falls off his barstool at the mention of sending a person or two with the elves. He puts down his mug and stands over near Barliman and Silvarion, and interjects, "Mr. Butterbur, sir, I'll volunteer to go with these elves and make sure you get your kegs back, sir. That is, if these elves will have me." Gerthan seems to be almost bouncing up and down with energy, even though he is standing still. He looks first to Silvarion, then back to Barliman.
Shaking his head slowly, the Noldo says, "If Mordor came knocking at your door, the city would be burning, an army of a hundred thousand orcs would be desolating the breadth of Eriador, and the sky would be black with dark sorcery. No, master Butterbur, Mordor is not something we can jokingly dismiss."
Leaning on the bar, then, Silvarion considers the proposition. "I have no objection to a pair of folk returning with us to return your casks; however, they must be trusty folk, and you must vouch for them yourself. It has been many decades, or perhaps centuries, since men from Bree have come to the House of Elrond. They will be safe, but no evil enters that blessed valley, and ware to he who brings it with him."
Barli's eyes grow wide at the speech about Mordor, and his eyes twinkle as the elf completels the talk about the dark land and its inhabitants. Quite obviously, this man knows nothing about the truth of the matter; the severity of the cause. "Ah, of course not." He shrugs, and pauses momentarily; the air in this common room is heavy.
"But bless me, I've forgotten what we were about! Silvarion: I shall gladly sell you three kegs of ale, and two of my most trusted people will be along with them in order to retrieve them. I can't imagine anyone from here being inerested in your meeting though; that doesn't seem much like our stuff, if you take my meaning, and all respect intended and all. Thgouh I'm sure your meeting will be most important to others. Of course." Barli's words seem uncertain. "I hope I'm not offended you again, sir..."
Almost jumping up and down, but still managing to stay relatively still, Gerthan says, "Oh, it would be an incredible honor to journey to the home of your fair folk. I, I, it is beyond my words to say how much I would enjoy going on such a journey," he stops rambling for a second, and looks to Barliman, and says, "Er, that is, if I get chosen to go." He turns back to look at Silvarion, then turns back to look at Barliman.
Peter is completely taken by surprise by the elf's words. Aloud, he exclaims, more to himself than to anyone in particular, "Breefolk? Going to Rivendell? Can the tales really be true, then? There is a Blessed Valley? As I live and breathe, I hardly believe my ears! Who could've imagined it?" He shakes his head a couple of times.
Barliman regards Gerthan with a flat, dry visage, shaking his head, "Why Gerthan, you'll have me thinking you're a furryfoot, if you don't quit bouncing like that. Now away with you - it'll have to be someone who's with the Pony of course. Away." He turns back to the elf.
Suppressing a small sigh at the casual dismissal of the might of Mordor, Silvarion merely answers, "I do not easily offend, master Butterbur, fear not. I am quite ready to agree to your terms, though we have not yet spoken of a price... And as for who will go... why not these pair? They certainly have the interest. If you will speak for them, of course." Afterwards, he turns to Marianna, murmuring a quiet, "No thank you, miss. I've some left in my cup, I think..."
Turning to look at Barliman, Gerthan casts a pleading glance at Barliman, and asks again, "Please Mr. Butterbur? You won't even have to pay me or anything to go, I'll gladly go for free."
Marianna turns to Barliman. "Sir, if you were in need of someone from the Pony to go..." she suggests quietly, her sentence trailing off into a small shrug.
"As for who will go, and will all honor due and all, though Gerthan is a strong hunter he is not one of my people." Barliman pauses, and regards the man once more, just as dryly as before. "But that's unimportant. My price is this; I think it's more than fair considering the quality of the ale: three hundred per barrel, and a hundred fifty each for the pair I send to retrieve the empty barrels. In all, three silver dimes and three silver pennies." He smiles, and looks up at the elf, and then back down at Peter. He raises an eyebrow at him, and nods slowly before returning his gaze to the tall elf before him.
Dipping into a pouch at his belt, soft clinking audible as he does, Silvarion withdraws a pair of silver dimes and presses them into the innkeeper's plump hand. "Done and done. But in addition, you must select those who are to come with us to fetch back the casks, and provide me with your personal assurance that they are trusty folk. I could take no less to Elrond's home."
Still looking devastated, but regaining his composure, Gerthan turns to Barliman, and says, "Please Mr. Butterbur, let me go with these elves to their home. As you said yourself I am a hunter in these parts, so I can fend for myself better than most, and I've even ventured out to Weathertop. Please, let me go, and someone else of your choosing."
Peter notices Barliman looking at him, and he gets the impression that he is one of those who Barliman wants to travel with the elves. "What!? Me, travel to the Blessed Valley??" he replies bewilderedly. "What, well..." he pauses to scratch his head a couple of times. Then, after careful consideration, says simply, "Who would've thought it possible? Me just a lumberman from Archet and all, growing up to leave Bree like this..." He sounds half-appalled to the idea, but there is a hint of excitement in his voice.
Marianna moves a little to wipe the countertop, keeping one ear on the conversation at hand. She seems a little more interested than she lets on, but says nothing more on the subject.
Barliman fishes in his pockets for a moment foolishly, and then turns them out, grasping the two silver dimes tightly in his right hand, "I haven't the difference on hand, sir...but I'll send it along or have it at the ready when you depart in the morning. A deal done is a friend won, as pap used to tell me..." Barliman looks very pleased with himself, and nods resolutely. "As for the second part..." He turns and shakes his head at Gerthan once more. "Last time Gerthan ran into an elf, he hasn't been the same since... He'll have to stay around the town. I suppose if he really wants to meet an elf again after today, he'll find a way somehow on his own. And MAri, dear..." Barli turns around, cupping his waitress' elbow in his hand, "Without you serving these folk, the Pony would fall into the hill itself. Besides, that road ain't safe, dear..." He returns his gaze to the elf before him. "Peter though...he may be of some use on the trip, and I definitely trust him...no doubt on that. Yes, he shall go, and so shall Rand, my cellarboy. He needs a break anyway, and knows more about handling kegs than anyone else could, I'll warrant. There. Both are my friends, and both I trust with my ale - and that's saying more than you know." He looks decided as he nods toward the elf.
Looking really, really disappointed, Gerthan says nothing, but walks away looking awful. He opens the door and exits the Common Room.
Marianna chuckles aloud in spite of herself. "I suppose you're right, sir," she grins as she looks around the Common Room. "Even so...well, it's a pity for anyone to miss a chance like this."
"There is no difference to be met," answers Silvarion firmly. "A fair price and more for ale on such short notice. We will need to be off within two days; we would take rooms until then, if you have them."
Peter considers the situation awhile longer, then sighs. "Well, I suppose I'm more frightened than anything. Mr.... Silvarion, sir. I've never left the Breelands before, sir, so you can understand my fear. There's all kinds of bad things out there, wargs and wolves and perhaps worse. But I will take your word that we will be safe, if that is the word you give. I always try to learn new things, so I am sure that this trip will be very educational for me, at the very least."
"But bless me!" Barli's seems slightly overwhelmed at having been told to 'keep the change.' His youthful voice rings clearly over the din of the crowd which he has so rudely ignored throughout this conversation. "I've got these people to tend to! You shall have my best rooms, of course, in the Northwing upstairs, and I'll have it seen to that whatever your needs, they're met." Without hesitation, he calles at the top of his powerful lungs, "NOB!!! Where'd you get off to now?!" I shall have a wagon ready to leave whenever you are, and I shall see to it that you meet Rand before you depart as well." Barli bustles away from the visitor without another word, and is soon once again mingling with his folk, providing them with mirth and ale...two of the most important things in this naive people's lives.
Silvarion smiles at that, and says "Thank you, master Butterbur. You prove a remarkable man, in such times as these. I will speak to you again before we leave."
Then to Peter, the elf adds, "Safety I guarantee, of course. We will
see you safely to our home, and upon your return, you shall have either
a guard of elves or of dunedain; there are dangers from which you must
be protected."