The Moon Druid of Arcedia; And the One Ring to Rule Them All

~01 The Prancing Pony is Painfully Loud~

~The Prancing Pony is Painfully Loud~

     With every step of Ahshala's feet, the mud parted and issued a rather unpleasant squelch from the unsuspecting waterlogged moss and buzzing gnats of the Midgewater Marsh. Ahshala hummed softly and partook in the syncopation of the bug's wings, frogs' croaks, the rustle of leaves, her footsteps, and the footsteps of her traveling companion.

     She could see him quite clearly in the darkness silhouetted by the soft glow of the gibbous moon. His ebony hair brushed against the collar of his jacket with every step he took. His dark leather boots were caked in the marsh blood, that is to say, covered in moss, mud, and the puny bodies of various insects smothered by the heavy boots of Strider.

     The two had been traveling south after the heavy rainfall near the borders of Arthedain had possessed a challenge in tracking orc numbers near Fornost. They would have struggled longer had it not been for the whispers Ahshala had heard through the woods of a request from her dear friend Gandalf the Grey. He had appeared not long after to inform the two rangers of the danger a young hobbit, a small humanoid with rather large hairy feet, had found himself in. They were to wait at the Prancing Pony, an Inn in the town of Bree until the young hobbit appeared.

     They were only a few hours from their destination on foot and Ahshala planned to soak in as much of the moon's grace as she could before she would be confined to the inside of the tavern's walls.

     She desperately ran her hand along the droopy leaves sleepily sagging off the stooped bows of the juvenile Tathar, or willow, beside her. Her hand grazed the shimmering leaves for a brief moment, and the tantalizing tingle of life crept up her toned arm. She drew a long breath that eased its way out her nose catching the ears of the man who walked in front of her.

"Ahshala," His voice was like a trickling stream, calm and ever sure of its course. He turned to see her delicate fingers longing for the soft brushing of the leaves. "It'll only be for a few nights."

He referred to her imprisonment in the humid, sweltering, stinky, cesspit that was the Prancing Pony.

To most, the tavern was quite a lovely establishment; It was far less rowdy than taverns near Gondor and had frequently mild-mannered patrons; It was clean, the food was decent, and the ale even more so. Ahshala did not feel the same. She hated the very idea of being away from the clean air of the outdoors even on a chilly autumn night like the one they walked in. She dreaded staying in Bree for more than one night, and more so she hated the separation from the pale moonlight.

Ahshala groaned grumpily as she moved her hand from the tempting leaves to the strap of her cotton bag.

"I hate taverns." She stated as she took a few long strides toward the tall man before her.

He gave her a warm laugh before he placed a strong, comforting arm around her shoulder and together they walked calmly toward the small town ahead.

The two wanderers had sat themselves in the most brooding corner of the rather populated tavern.  More travelers than Ahshala remembered seeing last spring, sat chatting loudly about the weather, informing others of foreign news, or singing pub songs. Most were dressed in rather plain travel clothes or workman uniforms, simple blouses, plain and patched trousers or skirts held up by belts or bracers, worn leather shoes, and bonnets or hats that hung by their cloaks and coats in the entryway. Two figures still wore their dark green cloaks. Like the others, they were spattered with mud and marsh moss but the rangers from the north did not care. Dark hoods covered their unkempt hair hiding more of Strider's features than Ahshalas due to the copious amount of bristling curls that adorned her head.