Silverhelm: A Tale of Two Enemies

When Men Threaten You With Broken Swords

[EDITED]

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Bree.

Nowhere else in Eriador will you find such a town. It is grubby and dirty, but homely - the denizens of the town kept their candles bright and made as much of an effort to keep their windows clear as possible - and it is full of the worst thieves, pickpockets, and cutthroats imaginable, but it is also home to the fairest shopkeepers and kindest innkeepers. For another thing, it also rains there regardless of the time of the year - the rain is as torrential in August as it is in April.

It is through these muddy streets that I make my way. It is fall - toward the end of September if my counting is correct - and the downpour is as torrential as always. Water drips down the hood of my cloak, falling into my eyes. Every piece of fabric on me is thoroughly soaked and saturated with water, and so is my hair. My hands are jammed into my pockets and my gaze, focused on the ground in front of my feet.

I stop at a sign that swings in the wind, depicting a fat white horse rearing on his hind legs, and beneath in neat letters, the words "The Prancing Pony". While there is mud on the tiles of the inn's porch - something that cannot be avoided in this weather - the owner of the inn has made sure that the windows and sign are clean. The bright green and yellow paint on the sign, though faded by whatever little sun the town might get, is a stark contrast to the dull browns and greys of the inn's construction.

I step under the shelter of the roof, then push the door open and stride inside. I am greeted by a sudden stink of many bodies packed together to escape the rain, amplified by the fires that roar in hearths on both sides of the long room. There is a wooden counter right beside the door, with a lovingly polished figurine of a horse sitting on top of many sheaves of paper.

Keeping my hood up, I ring the silver bell that sat on the table. A few seconds later, a frazzled-looking heavyset man appears behind the counter, wiping a mug with a rag. He stops for a moment as he sees me, his eyes widening, then sets the mug and rag aside, falling into his routine.

"Would you like a room, ...sir? Ma'am?" he asks, taking a piece of paper from under one of the large stacks. Unscrewing the cap of an ink bottle, he holds a quill between his teeth.

"Yes, thank you," I say, not bothering to affirm gender. It wouldn't do well for me - much of my work depends on clients and most people in general assuming that I am a man, and besides, it isn't very safe for a lone woman to be wandering Bree.

"Ah, you are very lucky indeed tonight," he says as he scribbles something down on the paper. "Not many rooms open lately, you see- unless you're a hobbit!" He laughs. "Had a party of four hobbits from the Shire come through today, in fact. Rare that many people come here from the West!"

I nod, frowning. Strange things have been happening lately - the Ulairi have risen in the East, more and more elves are leaving these shores, and dark things are stirring again. It is after some of these dark things that I have come here.

Finished writing whatever he was writing, the innkeeper hands me the paper and quill. "I'll need you to sign here, ...sir?" he says, still uncertain at the 'sir'.

"Thank you," I say, taking the pen and paper from him with a nod. I sign at the bottom: Silverhelm, in looping letters that look like elvish characters. Not gender-revealing, and mysterious enough to confirm a dangerous person yet not identify the race.

The innkeeper takes the paper back, squinting at the bottom to affirm the signature, then slides a bronze key on a tattered leather lanyard. "You'll be in room 17," he says. "Right up the stairs, ...sir, and all the way down the hall on your right." As always, he hesitates before the 'sir'.