Coming Home

An Unexpected Invitation

 So, I decided to do a little editing because I didn't like how this started out. Hope you enjoy! Robin

Authora sat downpouring at a table and pulled her mug of ale closer to her. Shifting in her seat, she observed the spacious room warily, eyes roving over the numerous people laughing and eating around her. From under the shadow of her hood she peered, hidden within the shadow of her dark mysterious corner. They would glance at her from time to time wondering what a Wanderer such as herself could want at such a place; there were not many like her in the world, there were the Duindain who protected and watched over the lands in small groups, but she was not one of them, though she was aquatinted with quite a few of their chiefs and Rangers. But tonight she was here with no purpose but to enjoy her ale and have a comfortable bed to spend the night in after so many nights spent under the starts. That and she had no mind to stay out in the rain which was down-pouring outside the dirty windows of the place. It was a dreary day to say the least, and she wished to forget the mud and grim that covered her boots and lower calves. Brushing a stray curl away from her eyes, she wiggled her toes in said boots. Something was going to happen, she could feel it in her bones.

The tables started to fill as the evening progressed, people chatting merrily as food of every sort was being served. The people were cheerful and boisterous, telling crude jokes and winking at the scantily clad women that served there food. Holding back a remark that would possibly get her in trouble, she tried to focus on the positive part of her day. She had travelled far, accomplished a favor that she had been asked by a Ranger friend, and had stumble not so innocently upon this inn on the trading route from Gondor to the Blue Mountains. It had been a semi-productive day, and she wasn't about to let a little rain ruin that for her. Lifting her mug she took a sip of the ale and grimaced, it wasn't the best ale she had had. Forcing herself to swallow she continued picking at her meal that sat before her. It was a rather plain dish, beef stew with a few onions floating in the broth and a mushroom or two chopped up and thrown in for good measure. How she had thought that this had sounded good was beyond her, her cooking was far better even with the small amount of vegetables she was able to forage for when she was out scouting. Lifting her spoon she took a bit of the broth and slurped it down quietly. Perhaps with a bit more salt and pepper it would be made more edible, she thought reaching for the shakers that she had requested brought to her table with the meal. With a few profuse taps she stirred the contents of her bowl and tasted it again. Hmm, knew it, she smirked to herself. It had been missing that little bit of extra flavoring that she was accustom to. The stew disappeared quickly after that, and she was left to wipe out the small puddle of juices in the bottom with her stale piece of bread.

After finishing her mug of ale and calling for another she pulled herself deeper into her corner and watched the people around her. A man sitting at the bar drawled loudly about the weather and how it should be good for the crops, making her huff, good for the crops indeed, it would drown them from what she could see of the puddles on the road outside. The Innkeeper chatted with his customers made his way over to her after grabbing a pint of cider for himself. Uhh, here we go again, she mentally groaned.

Plopping himself in the seat across from her he grinned from ear to ear, "So what's the news from the wilds of the North?"

"Nothing much, Master Innkeeper, all is well with the world at the moment," She replied, trying to sound bored.

He didn't take the hint and continued,"I've heard that there are Orc's moving about in the Northlands, causing a lot of trouble and disrupting the peace."

"They are no worse than they were the last time I was through this area, Hammel." She stated, pulling a pipe from her pouch and stuffing a bit of weed into it. Producing a match from somewhere deep within the folds of her cloak she scraped it along the edge of the table and lit her pipe.