True stories are not always better ones

Finnvi entered the main room of the Prancing Pony and headed straight for the tables, looking around as if searching for someone. When she didn’t find them she made her way to the counter, ordering a troll stout before glancing sideways.
A pretty young woman was leaning on a barrel next to her. Her dress was that of the average Bree-folk, but her broad freckled face and brown locks were indeed very fair to look upon, Finnvi thought.
“Waiting for someone as well?”, she asked.
The woman smiled brightly, though she shook her head. “I am just taking a bit of a break, enough for a beer and some looking at the interesting folk who gather here… My name is Mabbe!” She offered a hand, which Finnvi shook and introduced herself in turn.
They conversed lightly for a few moments while sipping their respective drinks. Mabbe seemed to be a joyful spirit, and Finnvi felt her mood lift considerably while talking to her. And she really is very pretty, she thought to herself with a smile before Mabbe posed another question: “Are you a trader, Miss Finnvi?”
Finnvi chuckled, amused at the address. "Some kind of trader I'd be. But no, I occupy myself with hunting at the moment", she said, pointing to her pack and the several knives of different makes and sizes strapped to it. She’d left her bow at the Comb and Wattle in the care of a boy she trusted. "And what about yourself?"
If Mabbe’s question had been meant as a way of asking why she looked and sounded foreign to Bree, she seemed content not to have it answered yet. "Ah, well, I've been a farm girl most of my life, though never very good at it," she said with a giggle. "I am looking for a job in town over the winter, though...!"
Finnvi grinned. "That makes two of us, then! I'd rather spend the winter here than in a tent somewhere in the Trollshaws if I'm honest. What kind of work are you looking for? I might be able to help, I've taken on a lot of jobs here in the last years."
Mabbe closed both hands around her mug and glanced to the counter on her left. "I'm not sure yet, but... tavern work, you know... I think that could be very interesting. I've got to come in here more oft than ever before this fall, and it's ever so fun to see all the different sorts of folk...!"
"I think you'd make an excellent barmaid. There's not many who are both competent and pretty."
That comment earned her a cheerful bout of laughter. "Oh, no! Don't say that! I've not proven the former yet, and the latter's certainly questionable!"
Finnvi took a sip of her stout, still grinning. "Ah, I disagree, especially about the latter. But let's not fight."
Mabbe put her free hand to her cheek, looking pleasantly flattered. "If you insist!" Returning both hands to her mug she continued, "I think you very pretty, too! A little unusual for these parts." She sounded earnestly friendly rather than flirtatious, but Finnvi didn’t feel too disappointed.
"Thank you. Not everyone likes the look of us Dalish here,” she responded, deciding to indulge the woman’s curiosity. “ – Do you know where Dale is?”
Mabbe's eyes became pleasantly round. "Oh, oh! Far over the Misty Mountains cold, and all that! I've heard stories!" She seemed almost childishly excited. "I've heard of Dalish traders coming through, though I've never been in town enough to meet one. And I suppose I haven't still, since you're not one!"
So even farm-girls from Bree knew the song by now. The thought pleased her. "Sorry to disappoint you. Though I've been many other things!" she boasted, making a grand gesture with the hand that was not holding her stout. "Farmhand, builder, tamer of oxen and once even a door guard!"
Mabbe looked eager at the hint of a story, scooting a bit closer. "Whose door did you guard, then, Miss Finnvi?"
Leaning in, she lowered her voice to almost a whisper. "I'll tell you, but you have to keep it secret. You know the house in the Stone Quarter, where the dwarven traders often have their meetings?"
Mabbe also leaned forward. "No, I don't…”
Having captured her full attention, Finnvi continued. "They talk of many secret things there, if there's been a find of jewels or even mithril and in which mine, information they keep to themselves lest an outsider rob them of their riches. But one thing is even more secret!"
Mabbe reacted exactly as she’d wished, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she questioned, "What? What?"
The fur-trappers she’d spent many months with were always just as hungry for stories. Evenings in their company had taught Finnvi that suspense was only as good as its timely resolution – and now, the point of highest suspense was reached.
"Their names!", she whispered. "They call each other by their true names in the dwarvish tongue, and if anyone were to know them, they would have complete power over that dwarf. It's some kind of magic." She paused for dramatic effect. "So they put me in front of the door to make sure no one can eavesdrop. And they made me plug my ears with wax so I couldn't listen either!"
Mabbe’s eyes went almost impossibly wide, and her mouth fell open a little. "Truly!? There is a magic like that? Oh!" She tried very hard to keep her voice low, but her hands were twitching in excitement. Finnvi leaned on the counter and observed the effect of her story with a proud grin. After a moment, Mabbe leaned back to sip her beer and consider the revelation. "My, my! They must truly trust you, then, to have such an important duty!"
"Yes, I am considered very trustworthy by dwarves”, Finnvi said in a serious tone, holding back the laugh that was bubbling up inside her. "They like people with connections to Erebor, since many of them have kin that dwells there." That at least was true.
Their conversation flowed on, Mabbe letting her imagination run wild with what would happen if one were to learn a dwarf’s true name – would you be punished? Imprisoned? Or would you have to marry them?
Finnvi merely chimed in a few times, sipping her stout and feeling altogether very pleased with herself. She would remember this evening when she was back at the Comb and Wattle, plagued by bedbugs and the questions that she usually managed to keep at bay, but that beset her more often now winter was nearing. When the tiny voice inside her head would ask what was keeping her here, why she couldn’t just be less of a coward and go home, she could remember this: there were still many pretty Bree-land girls she had not told a story to.