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I enter the "Prancing Pony", the most popular of Taverns
in this area. It´s not like the party we just left in
The Shire, if you know what I mean, but surprisingly
it´s really crowded. Lucky for us, Gandalf has forewarned
the owner of the tavern of me and my
fellowship´s arrival. The owner is a man in is 40´s
who reminds me slightly of Faramir (a Faramir in his
40´s that is). On my way to the table I crash into a
drunken dwarf. For a few seconds I confuse him with
Gimli, though I know that Gimli probably is hanging
out with Legolas at Bombadils place at this moment.
The dwarf is wearing an exclusive looking chainmail,
made of what appears to be mithril and marked with a
golden "G". There is an axe hanging from his belt, which
bears the same golden "G" logo as the chainmail altough
it´s, naturally, made of processed fur and silver. I
quitely remind myself that I must purchase one myself
when passing Rivendell.
Me, Sam, Peregrin and Merry reach our table and start
to look through the menu. Irritating indeed, I find
no lembas on the starters menu. "How can I help you,
gentlemen?" the tavern
owner aproaches us, in a very Faramir-ish way. "you
haven´t got any lembas, do you?" Merry and Peregrin
look at each other and then look at me, obviously surprised
of my remark. "Sorry Sir, we haven´t got any in right
now. May I suggest..." "No lembas? no lembas!"
I find myself shouting at the tavern owner, who´s as
surprised as I am. I feel a sudden urge to staple his
ears to the table with my newly bought elven daggers
and cut his back open and pull out his guts while forcing
him to fist of broken glass. The blood runs down the
table and reaches a dog, which starts to lap it. The
tavern owner´s screams make everyone staring at our
table and there is an awkward silence. Everything is
perfectly quite, since the tavern owner has fallen into
unconciousness or, more probably died. In the quite
crowd I see a well-known face: Aragorn. Aragorn is dressed
in a subtle cape, covering a light chainmail and he
is having a sword, probably Gondor made, in his hand.
Suddenly there is a cold breeze running through the
tavern. Small pieces of paper, confetti-like, start
to fall from the
ceiling.
"May I suggest our delicious frog soup, sir?" I stare
back at the tavern owner. He´s giving me a more-polite-than-friendly
smile. I silently nod. "Yes, frog soup. That´ll do."
As the tavern owner walks away I can hear Sam´s whisper:
"frog soup is just soooo out. I bet Saruman isn´t feeding
Uruk-hai with that kinda crap."