The door opened, there was a
swirl of leaves, and someone walked into the bar. For a moment, there seemed to be singing, far off and beautiful, and it was likely the new patron heard it as well.
Can't see him? Perhaps you should look lower.
The little man was hardly more than three feet tall, and this was because he was a Hobbit. He had an honest, simple face, with round, dark eyes that shone in their own strange, simple way, like stars on a clear night over a pasture. Hobbits are rarely beautiful, as a rule, and Samwise Gamgee was not the sort to break the rules; he had a face that seemed apt to laughter, and good cheer, but it wasn't particularly handsome, nor horribly clever-looking. However, it was obvious from the thoughtful crease of his brow that he had seen many things that a Hobbit could not be cheerful about.
Nearly sweeping the floor behind him was a cloak that shimmered in the light, greys and browns and greens, as if it could blend in with anything, be it grass or brush or stone. It was almost otherworldly, and it was fastened at his throat with a small silver brooch shaped like an ornate little leaf.
A sword was fastened at his side, one with a famous name, though its owner didn't rightly know how famous it would be to some in this place. It was called
Sting, and it was called that for a reason, as many a nasty orc and spider had felt its venomous bite, including one of the hideous, horrible daughters of Ungoliant Herself, Shelob. At the time the Shelob had been gravely wounded by it, it had been in the hands of this brave little Hobbit. They looked like rather unremarkable hands, to be sure, but they were not to be underestimated. They were brown from sun, and calloused from honest, hard work, and digging in good, green earth; but they had done fare more than ropemaking and gardening.
Just a bit of silver peeked out from under Sam's waistcoat, which was very fine, but also very practical. A book was clutched in his hand, bound in leather. It was red. If one was to look inside, and Sam would only let someone do so with great care, they would see that three different hands had written in it; spidery writing at first, then a neat, refined script, then Sam's own solid, clumsier one.
'An inn?' He placed his fists on his hips, one of them still clutching the Red Book, and he frowned slightly in confusion. How had he gone from the woods next to the East Road to this place?
'I don't rightly know what happened,' he said aloud, matter-of-factly, in stern hobbit fashion, 'but I don't reckon I like the sights of this place and no mistake.' He said it partly to himself and partly to whoever was willing to listen. It was probably difficult to take the little hobbit seriously thanks to the tone of voice he was using, but not taking Samwise Gamgee seriously had led to the downfall of many a foul thing indeed.
[OOC: Have to leave soon, but want to at least start threads. Just tag in and I'll get to you/continue tomorrow if I can't tonight.]![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
latino_menace
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