Stitches places his foot into the doorway of the Prancing Pony, closing the door behind him after he takes the step from being out to being in. He looks around, at this time of day it’s empty. Waywardly his ill kept fingernails scratch at his stubble, and he looks at the ground almost religiously. He mumbles to himself as he drags his way towards the bar, holding up a finger to Barliman as the barman begins to speak to him, but stops when he receives Stitches’ usual order of the last few days. As Barliman pours his brandy, his eyes scout the floor like a mouse looking for cheese. He’s clearly searching for something.
After a few moments the fellow looks up to receive his drink from Mr. Butterbur, and his tired and reddened eyes wander as he asks, “What did uh-...” He trails off at first, seeming to get distracted by something. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and takes a sip of his drink, shuddering before looking at the waiting bartender, “What did the hobbit get, if anything?”
The tavernkeep fills him in, but he hardly listens, just giving a short, “Hmm.” into both his drink and into the vessel that contains it. Still sipping, almost like it was the nectar of life itself, he turns around and heads for the chair he was sitting at the other night, placing himself on it and setting his drink on the nearby table. A voice rings in his head, reminding him in an angry hiss to look for it. He waves a hand around his left ear and grunts, “Alright, alright…I’m looking.” He claims.
Without another word he begins to look around on the floor, gasping in delight when he spots a folded parchment that had fallen out of his cloak last night. It is weathered, it looks as though it has been wetted many times, and whatever is written on it is likely not very legible anymore. He hums softly and opens it up to stare absently at the scribbles. He gives a long sigh as he reads the old letter, followed by a short chuckle at the end, at which point he folds it back up and looks around the room, whispering to himself, “Those were the days.” He says, tucking the parchment back into his cloak pocket and reaching for his drink.
Who knows how many minutes or hours will go by here before anything happens, if at all. There he sits, like some sort of ghost, unable to move on, yet far away as his eyes find themselves stuck in place. His memories dig up, from the voices of people he knows or knew to the earliest of his days in Bree, back when it was all much simpler.
