Forsaken Inn

“Hail, stranger!” I called to the man who approached Ithilwe and I.

Minas Eriol was a distraction. Yes, the Company was to retrieve the half of our caravan that had been stolen; but to me, it was a distraction. To draw my blade in aimless slaughter, to strike down any goblin stood in my path, that is what I needed. 

A grand turn of events! Truly grand!

My goods and cart have been delivered to me safe and sound by the most wonderful dwarf by the name of Garram! Oh bless those Longbeards! The rumors of their trustworthiness are well founded after-all! I was terrified that I would never see my stubborn oxen or my cart ever again. I believe I will have to keep this dwarf in mind for future jobs. He certainly isn't as shrewd of a businessman as myself. He didn't want much for his labor other than fifty copper coins.

I don't know where to begin, but I've been told by the inn keeper that I am not alone in this sort of trouble and that I may find some peace of mind by writing down what I experienced. I suppose I will start at the beginning:

The two Dwarves stared at the huge hole in the ceiling of the inn.

“Why would Fralin stop here?” the younger brother, Nogi, asked.

“It’s still some ways to Bree,” answered the elder, Bogi.

“I don’t like the look of that roof,” Nogi commented. “That’ll fall down and crush everybody here someday, mark my words.”

Taraborn had never been happier, for he was home.

Not Minas Tirith, where he had spent his childhood with his father, or the Southern reaches of Rohan where he had spent the next few years of his life, learning the way of the soldier. Not even Bree, the town where he had settled down for a few years now. It was the longest he’d stayed in one place since childhood, but no, it wasn’t home.