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The Inn was especially busy this evening, and strangely no one seemed to have any recollection of the sensational storm from earlier that day.
The night carried on like any other with song and dance. Pipe smoke filled the air and churned delightfully with the smell of roast suckling hog and burning embers.
Just as one happy tune began to reach its climatic drunken surge, the front door burst open, and through the foggy air a silhouetted figure emerged into the light.
“Jamwine!” the crowd surged.
Jamwine stepped into the room, nodding his head low, a bit embarrassed at his follies, but with a smirk around his face prompted by the warm welcome of his friends.
The night carried on with laughter and libations. Though many prodded the hobbit on his homecoming, eager for tales of adventure, Jamwine was not too hasty to divulge much information.
As the barrels emptied, so did the inn. Jamwine took a seat at the bar across from Mr. Loamsdown.
As the innkeeper wiped away mug rings and seed shells, he noticed the joyful smirk had gone completely from Jamwine’s face. Now he sat with a solemn stare, swirling the warm swill of ale at the bottom of his glass.