Shadow Hunter-LegolasxOC

12: A Ranger's Ally (Edited)

The sky wept when they arrived in Bree, drenching the small figures of the Hobbits with continuous torrents of water. Darkness enveloped them, the darker clouds obscuring the moonlight. It is too quiet, Varilerin mused as they walked cautiously to the town gates. Dim lanterns lit the walls, casting an ominous shadow on Varilerin's face. The Hobbits had never been to Bree before, she could tell, for they had stayed in their homeland for most of their lives. Varilerin, meanwhile, had frequented these places during her journeys. She knew its secrets and its whispers, including the troublesome night guards.

Varilerin rapped the wooden gate, grunting as it took too long for the window to be opened. An old man peered through the opening, suspiciously assessing Varilerin. "What do you want?" he snapped.

"We are heading for the Prancing Pony," Varilerin replied, equally sharply.

"For what errand?" he asked again, this time his voice smaller.

"Not your business," Varilerin reiterated. "Do not ask any more questions. Let us in, now." Her order was accompanied by a fearsome thunder, and the old gatekeeper shuddered. He swallowed nervously before quickly opening the gates. The Hobbits scurried past her, eager to find shelter, whilst she threw one last glance at the old man. "Whatever you do, do not open your gates to figures with no faces," she warned ominously before tailing the Hobbits.

The town was the same as she remembered, but the air tasted fouler, and the buildings were rotting with age. Rain dilapidated their roofs, and smoke billowed from each chimney. Its citizens glared at them, whispering words of wariness, particularly when they saw her. She couldn't blame them, for the days were dark and all things could be evil.

They trailed the muddy road to Prancing Pony, the most crowded inn they had encountered in the town. People's chatters could be heard as they unclasped their drenched cloaks, and roasted beef and wine could be smelled by even the drowsiest of the Hobbits. Crowder places were safer now, for at least evil could not find them so easily, not event the Ring. "Get in," Varilerin instructed, pushing them inside. The heat from the fireplace immediately warmed them to the bone. Varilerin scanned the area for anomalies before she joined them. The inn was full of drunkards and singing travellers who were to busy to welcome them, much to her relief—except for the innkeeper, she reckoned. He shifted away once he caught her menacing presence, and Varilerin forced herself a cough to earn his attention.

"Good evening. How may I help you?" he asked nervously.

"We're friends of Gandalf the Grey. Where is he?" she outright asked. The innkeeper frowned, and uneasiness plagued her heart. "What happened? Have you seen him? Surely he has met you several months befo—"

"Yes, I remember. The wizard... Well, I'm sorry lads, but I've not seen him for six months," he answered. The Hobbits looked at each other, and then to Varilerin. She bit her lip and pondered.

"Alright. Thank you," she whispered.

"What should we do now?" Frodo asked desperately. "Do you think he is alright?"

Varilerin's frown deepened. "I don't know, Frodo. Tardiness is not his habit..." She scanned the crowds, assessing their shelter. "Innkeeper. Get me four tankards of ale for these Hobbits," she ordered calmly, before returning back to her companions. "Stay here. I will ask around the town. Do not speak, and take your drinks silently."

Frodo nodded solemnly and urged the others to a corner of the room. Varilerin stretched herself and paced out of the inn, briefly seeing a cloaked ranger leaning against the wall. She remembered she gave each of the Hobbits a knife, and this time, a warm drink to soothe their senses. At least they would not invite so much trouble.