The night was young and it held the promise of rich entertainment; of splendors happily drunk upon, wonderfully reveled in and enjoyed. Its gloomy promises bore the ambitious and delicious glittering sound of coin. Offering up its wealthy reward on old wooden tables upon which excessively intoxicated Bree-land farmers argued over the normal humdrum of daily chores. Turning around, to lean with his back against the counter, Gorlen stared lazily over the dimly lit and stuffy quarters in front of him. It was quiet. Has been for quite a time, he thought. Gorlen looked down to the mug in his hand, the liquid that flowed within its dark recess beckoned him to the glorious plains of uncaring bliss. Something he’s been desperate in achieving lately, he must admit. Perhaps overly so, too.
“Yer back?” Barliman wanted to know as he dirtied another mug behind the counter. The Prancing Pony has been rather dull lately, and Barliman proved to be a disaster when it came to any form of decent company.
“Aye, came from the Shire only a day or two ago” Gorlen answered as he shuffled himself into his comfortable stance more securely, keeping an absent eye over the fire across from him. The congregation of farmers carried on with a squabble of some kind, their voices rising easily to become the only sounds polluting the Inn. Other than the two men standing near the barrels in the corner.
“Where’s that lass of yers?“ Barliman wanted to know, flicking up his eyes from the glass he was busy cleaning quickly.
Many people have asked him this, and how should he for the sake of the gods know what’s going on? He tries his best, he hoped. Even left a damn bunch of flowers by the door this morning. Right well, Gorlen admitted to himself, they were taken on his way via the gardens of oll' miss Hellia. But there it was, still, regardless. “She’s in our room” He simply answered. What was he to say? He felt helpless in her state.
“Ah…” The barman carried on with his cleaning. “And what was that about with you and tha’ other lass from the Dawn?” It was Taala the barman was talking about. The night before, Gorlen was standing by the counter, much like he was now, when Taala appeared through the door. He was happy to see the Sergeant. Though a woman, she stood toe to toe against any man.
She wanted to see him about something, and he pretty much knew what about. The damn bloody “Woodsman”. It was a moment of weakness and that’s all it was.
“What about her?” Gorlen asked curtly. One other thing he hated about these people was their insistent and never-minded, disrespectful, bloody, noses getting poked into everything all the damn time. He's not going to all of a sudden start yapping about official Company business. And at least his conscious is clear, for a change.
Downing the last drops from his mug, he turned around to slide it back to Barliman. Perhaps he should rather not drink as much. That might be wise, to say the least. Yet, Gorlen was never ever noted for his outstanding wisdom.
