Kirkrapine
Literotica Guru
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From "The Bloodhounds of Bree," by Damon Runyon:
I am sitting at my customary table at the Prancing Pony about to tuck into a plate of Butterburr's venison-and-sauerkraut, when who should sit down right across from me but Strider the Ranger! And he has the most worried and sorrowful look on his face, and without any kind of introduction, he says, "I need your help."
It is very flattering to hear that such a guy as Strider the Ranger thinks I might be useful to him in some way. Nevertheless, this news sends my blood pressure right up into the paint cards, because I can think of no way I might be useful to Strider that is not too dangerous to contemplate.
Strider the Ranger is never a guy I am apt to hang around with, or even see very often, because most of the time he is out in the woods with the Rangers doing whatever it is that Rangers do when they are out in the woods. But I hear a lot of stories about him, and most of them are very wild. They even say he has elvish blood and is descended from the old kings of Arnor and Gondor, but I never pay much attention to such stories, because if you believe half the things you hear in Bree you will buy the Moria Mines from a traveling dwarf and try to work out a deal on the Lonely Mountain. But it is for certain that Strider is a very tall guy, and also a very tough guy, and he is also a very strange and eccentric guy. One time when Dillwort the Dip is at the Prancing Pony and has about three Shire-ales too many, he spots Strider sprawled out in a chair in one of the dining rooms apparently catching forty winks. Dillwort thinks about what a professional accomplishment it would be if he could lift Strider's pigsticker right out of its scabbard. He promptly does so and is amazed to find it is only half a pigsticker, as it appears to be broken halfway down. Dillwort thinks about turning the scabbard upside down to see of there is any more blade in there, but he does not give this thought more than passing attention, because by this time he is preoccupied with trying to pry Strider's fingers off his neck. And this is Dillwort the Dip, who even fromthe bottom of his cups can lift your purse with such grace that you will go on spending out of it for two days before you notice it is missing. After this story gets around, there is some talk of what a great joke it would be to rile Strider and get him to draw his half-pigsticker in public. But nothing ever comes of this, because nobody cares to use his personal body to find out how much damage Strider can do with half a pigsticker. But as to why Strider carries half a pigsticker when he could just as easily carry a whole one, nobody seems to have any clue. So you can understand how the news affects me that Strider needs my help.
Anyway, Strider goes on to explain, "It involves a group of hobbits who will be arriving here from the Shire in a couple of days' time but I am not entirely sure when, and they intend to stay briefly here at the Pony and pass on to points east, and I am very concerned that they should succeed in this intention. But there is a possibility that they will run into very bad trouble."
If you hail from further east than Bree you will not know much about these hobbits, for they do not get around much. They are the same thing as halflings, only we do not use that word in Bree because half the citizens here are hobbits, and if they hear you call them halflings they are apt to get insulted and ask, half of what? We call them the Little Folk and they call us men-guys the Big Folk. They are little folk, in fact they are smaller than dwarves, but you will never mistake them for dwarves because neither the hobbit-guys nor the hobbit-dolls have big bushy beards, and what is more the hobbits always go barefoot, and their feet are as big as Strider's and as hairy as a dwarf's face. Also they sometimes live in holes in the ground, which I guess is not too different from the dwarves living in caves, at that.
Well, Strider gets to talking some more, and it turns out his main concern is with Arwen the elf-doll, and when he speaks her name his eyes get all sad and misty. Apparently some moons ago Strider is out in the woods when he chances upon Arwen, who is doing whatever elf-dolls do when they are out of the woods, and the moment he lays eyes on her he is a goner. But Arwen is a high reach even for a guy as tall as Strider, because she is an elf and will never grow old and wrinkled, and sooner or later even such a guy as Strider will have a hard time keeping up with her. What is more, this Arwen is very high-class even by elf standards, and she is the daughter of Elrond the boss-elf of Rivendell, this elf-town many furlongs east of Bree. I personally do not see elves very often, for they rarely visit the Four Towns, which they regard as low-class and mortal and not worth their time, although why guys who will live forever should be careful with their time is never clear to me. But some elves do pass through Bree on odd occasions, and it is always an occasion for the whole town to take notice, and in my judgment, if there are any ugly elf-dolls in the world they must be keeping them all at home on general principles. So I can understand how Strider must be feeling, having been so foolish as to get himself hooked on an elf-doll. He will not fill me in on all the details, which is more of a relief to me than I care to let on, but anyway he says these hobbits are somehow involved in a big caper which also involves Elrond and a great many elves and wizards and rich and powerful citizens, and if he can help out and impress Elrond, he might get his foot in the door with Arwen. . . .
I am sitting at my customary table at the Prancing Pony about to tuck into a plate of Butterburr's venison-and-sauerkraut, when who should sit down right across from me but Strider the Ranger! And he has the most worried and sorrowful look on his face, and without any kind of introduction, he says, "I need your help."
It is very flattering to hear that such a guy as Strider the Ranger thinks I might be useful to him in some way. Nevertheless, this news sends my blood pressure right up into the paint cards, because I can think of no way I might be useful to Strider that is not too dangerous to contemplate.
Strider the Ranger is never a guy I am apt to hang around with, or even see very often, because most of the time he is out in the woods with the Rangers doing whatever it is that Rangers do when they are out in the woods. But I hear a lot of stories about him, and most of them are very wild. They even say he has elvish blood and is descended from the old kings of Arnor and Gondor, but I never pay much attention to such stories, because if you believe half the things you hear in Bree you will buy the Moria Mines from a traveling dwarf and try to work out a deal on the Lonely Mountain. But it is for certain that Strider is a very tall guy, and also a very tough guy, and he is also a very strange and eccentric guy. One time when Dillwort the Dip is at the Prancing Pony and has about three Shire-ales too many, he spots Strider sprawled out in a chair in one of the dining rooms apparently catching forty winks. Dillwort thinks about what a professional accomplishment it would be if he could lift Strider's pigsticker right out of its scabbard. He promptly does so and is amazed to find it is only half a pigsticker, as it appears to be broken halfway down. Dillwort thinks about turning the scabbard upside down to see of there is any more blade in there, but he does not give this thought more than passing attention, because by this time he is preoccupied with trying to pry Strider's fingers off his neck. And this is Dillwort the Dip, who even fromthe bottom of his cups can lift your purse with such grace that you will go on spending out of it for two days before you notice it is missing. After this story gets around, there is some talk of what a great joke it would be to rile Strider and get him to draw his half-pigsticker in public. But nothing ever comes of this, because nobody cares to use his personal body to find out how much damage Strider can do with half a pigsticker. But as to why Strider carries half a pigsticker when he could just as easily carry a whole one, nobody seems to have any clue. So you can understand how the news affects me that Strider needs my help.
Anyway, Strider goes on to explain, "It involves a group of hobbits who will be arriving here from the Shire in a couple of days' time but I am not entirely sure when, and they intend to stay briefly here at the Pony and pass on to points east, and I am very concerned that they should succeed in this intention. But there is a possibility that they will run into very bad trouble."
If you hail from further east than Bree you will not know much about these hobbits, for they do not get around much. They are the same thing as halflings, only we do not use that word in Bree because half the citizens here are hobbits, and if they hear you call them halflings they are apt to get insulted and ask, half of what? We call them the Little Folk and they call us men-guys the Big Folk. They are little folk, in fact they are smaller than dwarves, but you will never mistake them for dwarves because neither the hobbit-guys nor the hobbit-dolls have big bushy beards, and what is more the hobbits always go barefoot, and their feet are as big as Strider's and as hairy as a dwarf's face. Also they sometimes live in holes in the ground, which I guess is not too different from the dwarves living in caves, at that.
Well, Strider gets to talking some more, and it turns out his main concern is with Arwen the elf-doll, and when he speaks her name his eyes get all sad and misty. Apparently some moons ago Strider is out in the woods when he chances upon Arwen, who is doing whatever elf-dolls do when they are out of the woods, and the moment he lays eyes on her he is a goner. But Arwen is a high reach even for a guy as tall as Strider, because she is an elf and will never grow old and wrinkled, and sooner or later even such a guy as Strider will have a hard time keeping up with her. What is more, this Arwen is very high-class even by elf standards, and she is the daughter of Elrond the boss-elf of Rivendell, this elf-town many furlongs east of Bree. I personally do not see elves very often, for they rarely visit the Four Towns, which they regard as low-class and mortal and not worth their time, although why guys who will live forever should be careful with their time is never clear to me. But some elves do pass through Bree on odd occasions, and it is always an occasion for the whole town to take notice, and in my judgment, if there are any ugly elf-dolls in the world they must be keeping them all at home on general principles. So I can understand how Strider must be feeling, having been so foolish as to get himself hooked on an elf-doll. He will not fill me in on all the details, which is more of a relief to me than I care to let on, but anyway he says these hobbits are somehow involved in a big caper which also involves Elrond and a great many elves and wizards and rich and powerful citizens, and if he can help out and impress Elrond, he might get his foot in the door with Arwen. . . .
