Harla's Tale: Heart of Fire

This first chapter of Harla's Story doesn't actually dwell on her origins, but rather a time further on. She will, however have chapters in the future that will be 'reflection' chapters, which will give a closer account of her origins.

As a heads up, this chapter contains what is, in essence, NC. So, you were warned.

As always, please do read, and then tell me what you thought, and tear it all to pieces in the name of improvement.

-Niara

====================

Tales of the Loneley Road

It was a horrible sort of warm, patchy, uncomfortable rain that spattered across the edges of the Lonelands. It did nothing to abate the late afternoon humidity, or cool the air, and simply made everything feel sticky. Dust and grass clung to everything, kicked up by the hot, damp wind, wet enough to stick, but not enough to stay firmly on the ground.

The wolf yelped as the impact threw it away, rolling over and scrambling to its feet to back away. Another of its pack mates limped badly as it circled while a third whined with each breath, its ribs damaged. By some unspoken agreement, the pack turned tail and fled back into the surrounding plains.

Harla lowered her shield and rested on her club for a moment, glancing at her charge. A Stoor, he was taller than her, but then, everyone was, even most full grown Harfoots. Rigar Bolger ran a small business near the edge of Bree town, out towards Combe, so he said, and carried a rather large pack full of various dried and wrapped herbs. He was grinning somewhat nervously as he straightened himself out, putting his sling away and letting the rock in his other hand fall back to the ground.
“Well, that showed them, didn’t it? Glad I’ve got you along, that’s for sure. Shall we continue?” Harla nodded, slipping her club back into its belt loop and sliding her shield back over her shoulder.
“They were starving, and desperate. It’s been a hard year for everyone out this way.”
“I suppose you’d know about that, Miss Harla, with all your adventuring out in the world. Now I’m not saying I don’t like travelling, you see, but if I had to wear a full kit of armour like that just to see a little more of the world, well, I’ll just stick to my shop and visiting my friends once in a while.” Harla listened with half an ear as she contemplated cleaning all the mud and dirt out of her armour. She could feel the grit working its way into the scale and joints, helped by the wind and the rain. As used as she was to wearing the armour day to day, the humid, wet weather was making her sweat uncomfortably, and she was sure her linen underthings were soaked, as much from her own perspiration as from the rain seeping in. She wasn’t even entirely sure why she had agreed to escort him on his trip in the first place, except that he had been so certain that he wouldn’t be safe on his own. Fair enough, at that. There had been a few wayward creatures so far, for whom a few well placed rocks had done the trick, but those wolves certainly wouldn’t have been deterred by Rigar’s sling alone. He was still talking, and didn’t seem nearly as put off by the horrid weather as she felt.

“At any rate, we’re almost there now, right? I know it seems like a long way around to get just from Bree out to the Forsaken Inn, but this way I can visit at Archet and Combe on the way, you see, drop off my things to Mugwort at the Inn, and then just wander down the straight road home again. And the weather is usually much nicer than this, you know. Ah! Here we are then!” Harla resisted the sigh of relief that threatened to escape her lips as they crested a rise to see the Forsaken Inn not too far away in the distance. She could almost hear a good drink calling to her as they made their way across the last distance to the run-down establishment.

The atmosphere inside wasn’t too much of an improvement, to Harla’s disappointment, though she was glad to be in out of the oppressive weather nonetheless. A fire burned against one wall, not yet built up for the evening, but managed to add unwelcome extra warmth all the same, and a small assortment of patrons nursed drinks and spoke quietly at the cluster of tables in the common room. The place was as dingy as the stories told, certainly. The Inn’s cook, an old hobbit who only went by the name of Mugwort, waved to Rigar, who responded with an amiable wave of his own as they entered.
“Well, thankyou very much once again, Miss Harla, I’m sure I couldn’t have made the trip without you. Here is what I owe you for the pleasure of your company, oh, and do please take this as well,” As the hobbit handed her a small purse, he also shucked off his pack and rummaged in it for a moment, coming up with a small earthen vial with a stopper. “It’s an aromatic; it’ll relax and loosen up your muscles. Just open it up by your bed when you go to sleep or some such; my thanks for letting me put you through such a hard slog today.” He smiled as he handed it to her and hefted his pack again. “Good afternoon to you, Miss Harla.”

She looked at the tiny bottle as Rigar made his way over to Mugwort and began chatting with enthusiasm. It had a little red ribbon tied around the neck and the initials ‘R.B.’ etched into the base. She tucked it into her pack and crossed the room to the bar, stepping up on a stool so that she could rest an elbow on the counter. The innkeeper, who had watched her approach, nodded to her now.
“Afternoon, young miss. Name’s Anlaf, people call me the forlorn for living here in this forsaken old inn, but you know, it’s not so bad once you get used to it. So, what do you want? Staying the evening, or will you be moving on before night?” Harla glanced back out the window for a moment. She really didn’t feel like setting out again right away, and her armour needed tending badly after the dust and rain.
“A bed for the night would be good, if you’ve got one. Nothing fancy, just somewhere to rest.” Anlaf smirked and nodded.
“Nothing fancy is right, my girl. We have a great deal of nothing fancy here, Miss…?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Harla. How much?” She pulled out her purse again as Anlaf noted her name in a grimy ledger under the counter.
“Five copper pieces for lodgings, just put your things in one of the empty rooms downstairs, and supper’s included, such as it is.” Harla handed him the coins with a brief smile and jumped down again, making her way past the other patrons to the stairs that led down to the other rooms. Finding one, she shrugged her pack onto the end of the bed and shut the door, leaning on it with a sigh. No lock, she noticed, but that was no big problem. With a small amount of effort she jammed the one chair in the room under the latch fitting, at an angle against a raised floorboard. Neither the chair, nor the door seemed very sturdy, but as little effort as it would actually take, someone outside would need to break both to get in, and that was the best she could do for now.

With the door taken care of, she began removing her armour piece by piece, and setting it out neatly on the floor. Her underthings consisted of a soft white shirt with laces at the chest, and an equally comfortable pair of red pants, and sensible underwear beneath, but all were less than comfortable by now, damp as they were and smelling of sweat. Harla grimaced as she sniffed at herself, then shrugged and stripped them off as well, wiping her body down as best she could with the garments, before throwing them to the side. Next she stepped over to her pack and opened it up, pulling out a fresh set of clothing, like her discarded outfit, a soft white top with a lace-up front, and red pants. These she set aside. No point getting dressed again before she cleaned her armour; she’d just get them messed up again. Unlike other women more gifted in that department, Harla found that she didn’t need to wear a breast band, so long as she laced her top up firmly, and they weren’t likely to grow any further now that she was just about fully grown herself. On the bright side, though, it was one less thing she had to worry about carrying about with her. She reached for a clean pair of underwear as well, the let them drop back into her pack. She was likely only going to be up for an hour or two more anyway, so there was little point. It wasn’t like anyone would know anyway. Instead, she pulled out her cleaning kit, complete with oils, sand and cloths, before coming across the bottle Rigar had given her. Well, she was going to be here for a while, why not? She pulled out the stopper and set it on the corner of the table, taking a moment to sniff at the neck of the jar. The scent that greeted her was pleasant enough and she inhaled it deeply for a moment, letting out an appreciative sigh, then knelt and picked up her gauntlets, getting to work.

Later, when she was going over the scales of her chest piece once last time, there came a brief knock. Harla instantly dropped the armour, hands flying to cover her chest and groin before she remembered that the door was barred. The latch lifted as the knocker tried to enter, and the chair creaked. After a moment, the latch dropped again.
“Miss Harla?” It was an older hobbit’s voice, Mugwort, she assumed. “Just letting you know that supper is just about done with. Everyone else has eaten already, and I’d like to head off to bed. Should I bring you something in before I go?” Harla retrieved the dropped piece of armour as she answered.
“No, uhh no, that’s fine thank you, I’ll be upstairs in just a minute or two, if you’ll wait.”
“As you please, don’t be too long.” She heard the floorboards creak as Mugwort retreated upstairs again, and sighed, blushing despite herself. Door or not there was something embarrassing about having a conversation with no clothes on.

Her last inspection finished, she set the armour aside and stood up, stretching. She wriggled her fingers, arms up above her head, and shook out her legs, bending and stretching them. Rigar had been right; she did feel rather relaxed and loose, no stiffness at all. Though, speaking of stiff, she had heard stories of the infamous and terrible nature of the inn’s brews, but drink was drink, and she needed one. She slipped quickly into her fresh shirt and pants which felt pleasantly cool against her skin, and did up the laces. After a moment’s thought, she belted on her club as well, then pulled the rickety chair from the door and lifted the latch. It felt good to be barefoot again, after the long day, and even though she was slightly concerned about the quality of the flooring and the possibility of bad splinters, she wriggled her toes with a grin and made for the stairs.

Upstairs, the patrons had thinned to only three, but somehow the overall noise level had gotten rowdier than before. Night had fallen, and the fire had been built up. Counter to the day, nights in the Lonelands got fiercely cold, but even so, the room was almost stiflingly hot. One of the men whistled at her as she crossed the room, and received jeered laughter from his friends for his effort. She waved back and blew a kiss in her best estimation of cute, if only to enjoy listening to the ribbing his friends proceeded to give him. When she reached the counter, Mugwort handed her a battered old plate, with some equally old cutlery.
“Here you are young miss, and good evening to you as well, now that that’s done. I’m off to bed.” He tipped an invisible hat to her and left as she examined the food. There was some meat, what she hoped was mashed potatoes and something that was probably cabbage. Anlaf hadn’t been lying when he’d said they had a lot of nothing fancy.

Harla glanced around the common room as she picked out a place to sit. Near the entry way, and the stairway down to the rooms, were two small collections of tables with lock boxes, where she had seen merchants packing up when she arrived earlier, while the centre of the room was occupied by two long tables, still complete with uncollected tankards and plates. Looking up through the hole in the roof, she decided against settling down there, in case the rain decided to start up again. Of the two tables near the fire, the three men were seated around the one closest the door, so she headed over to the other, by the stairs. Hopping up onto the seat of the table, she sat on the corner of the table top itself, one foot on the seat, to support her plate, the other swinging free off the side. The meat proved tough and stringy, boar, and a scrawny one at that. The potatoes and cabbage were passable, but in the end only made her want a drink even more.

Across from her, one of the other patrons caught her eye and called out just as she finished.
“Strange times indeed that see little folk out and armed in the wild places of the world.” He raised a pint politely and she noticed it was the same man who had whistled at her before. “What brings a young girl like yourself out to these parts?” More importantly than that, however, she noticed that all three men at the other table all seemed to have drinks in their hands. Harla set her plate aside and shifted to face them, crossing one foot over the other as they both swung free over the edge of the table now. The motion might seem subconscious, but she knew it would draw attention, even if only briefly, to the club that hung from her belt loop, resting alongside where her feet now rocked. She gave the man half a smile, flashing a near perfect set of neat white teeth, save one small gap in the upper left, which she preferred to think of as adding a charming impishness to her smile.
“Just what any guardian of the free worth her shield does, I suppose; trying to make a few coins while protecting those who need it. A shield for those as need it, and a club for those they need it from, and all that. Beats hiding back within the bounds and pretending the world isn’t changing, at any rate.” She leaned forward slightly, grinning more openly now. “Don’t suppose any of you gentlemen will be needing someone to protect you in the near future, hmm?” A part of her was still hurt by the way they all chuckled, as though she’d made an amusing joke, but she reminded herself that it was something she’d need to get used to and deal with. It was hard to get taken seriously when the person you were helping was more than twice your size. She glanced at their mugs again. “So anyway, I’m parched. What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here? Your barkeep seems to have abandoned us” There was more brief laughter from the other table before another of the men turned to look at her.
“This’d be your first time staying at the inn then, eh lass? You really sure you want the drinks on offer here?” Harla raised her eyebrows in response, one eye partially closed.
“I’ve heard the stories, don’t worry. I’m still asking though; stories like those can only make you more curious after all.” More chuckles followed her comment.
“Aye, that they do, I suppose. It’d be such a shame, too, to stay here at the Forsaken Inn, but not sample the infamously bad brews.” As Harla nodded, the man who had greeted her first stood from his seat. Looking at him now, she noticed sandy blonde hair and a clean shaven face, both features notably less common amongst the inn patrons she’d seen so far. He winked at her.
“Well, little lady, it seems we need to give you the full tour, if you think you can handle it.” With a small beckon he led her across the room to the bar, with the other two following behind. Still more than a little wary, Harla kept one hand drifting near the grip of her club as she followed, stepping up onto a stool, then hopping up to sit on the bar top. One of the other men, sporting rusty orange-brown hair that extended down to a thick but close-trimmed beard and moustache, piped up as he leaned on the bar, on the other side of her to Blondie.
“Drink here’s so poor, it don’t make much sense to charge us by the pint. Old Anlaf’s got a keen eye for telling how much of his supplies we put away one night to the next. Usual way it goes, he’ll extract a few coppers form each of us come morning, and that squares it, pretty much.”

The third man had taken up a position closer to the kitchen fire, lounging against a table a little way from the bar, sipping from his pint. Dark brown hair marked him apart from the other two, mostly clean shaven at the face, save for a small triangle of beard, neatly trimmed, just under his lip.
“Hey, Glynn, you’d best start her on something simple. Start on the really nasty stuff and we might lose the poor thing, screaming into the night.” There was laughter in his voice as he spoke, taking another drink from his own tankard. He seemed to be talking to Blondie, so that had to be Glynn. Glynn smirked in response, and hopped the bar with a nimbleness she hadn’t expected.
“Right you are. Now!” He started pouring a drink, and handed her a full pint a moment later. “This here stuff’s little better than swill, really. It’s certainly no good, but it sure ain’t bad enough to give a place a reputation.” Harla took a long drink, thirsty as she was, then wrinkled her nose.
“You sure that’s alcohol? Tastes more like it came out of the horses than the kegs.” That got a laugh form all three. Meanwhile, strangely, Harla found herself going back for another mouthful. Beside her, Orange-hair refilled his own mug.
“That it does, I suppose, lass. Hey Brightwood, think we out to press Anlaf a bit more, firmly about where he gets the stuff?” Brown-hair chuckled in response. Harla was holding the large pint in both hands, taking another mouthful. Subsequent drinks had seemed less foul, certainly, and though it was far from pleasant, indeed it was bordering on distinctly unpleasant, it was still strangely drinkable. Not to mention, it was doing a wonderful job curing her thirst. Glynn spoke up again as she continued to drink.
“So anyway, you came in here before in a full set of scale armour, with that other hobbit as visits Mugwort from time to time. He was dressed more like a Bree-hobbit, but you certainly aren’t. What’s the story there?” He was leaning forward now, with both elbows on the bar as Harla shrugged.
“Always been a bit different, I suppose, but there’s reason enough for that, and none of it yours.” She took another mouthful, tipping the pint up. “But I never wanted to just stay within the bounds all my life. Joined the bounders young, to get everyone off my back about making an honest living. Got to see things other folk pretend they don’t. Dark times, as you said yourself.” The mug was empty when she went back for more, though she wasn’t sure how that had happened. With a small grin she rattled it at head height. “What’s next? That one wasn’t nearly worth the stories.” Across from her, Brightwood chuckled and moved to put another log on the fire, poking at it for a moment. Harla glanced down again as another mug found its way into her hands. This one certainly had better colour to it, but there was something odd about the smell that she couldn’t quite place. Orange-hair was watching her initial reaction as she took a drink.

“That one is the place’s signature Forsaken Ale. It isn’t the best or worst drink to be had in the place, but it’s the one most folk around here drink the most of. Deceptive bite to it, considering,” Considering what, he didn’t say, but Harla’s first drink revealed it to at least count as alcohol, alongside the last drink’s likeness to stale water. The taste was again, unremarkable, except that a hint of it stuck around in her mouth long enough to make her want to refresh it with another sip. As she drank, he kept talking. “You aren’t half wrong, though, girl. Times are bad. Used to be we could just about scrape out a living from our finds in the old ruins, and what little the land itself gives us, but lately,” He sipped his pint. “More and more orcs and goblins creeping into the hills, and worse, they’re getting bolder. Plenty of times now we’ve been run off from a find, or even lost good men to their numbers.” He sighed, a sound that carried half a world with it, but on her other side, Glynn reached across to punch him lightly in the shoulder. As he did so, Harla was acutely aware of his arm brushing across her back and shoulders, though it was gone again a moment later, before she could feel justified commenting.
“Ease up there Gadaric, you’ll scare the poor lass! Leave the sorrows of the world for sunshine, the night is a time to drink and make merry!” Gadaric gave a small smile and rallied a little as Glynn refilled Harla’s mug.
“Aye, fair enough, Cheers!” Harla grinned and raised her fresh drink, joining in the toast. Brightwood drained the end of his tankard after the toast and clinked it on the tabletop with a sigh.
“So then, tell us the rest of your story, lass. How does a border-hobbit give up her duty to become and adventurer like yourself then?” The fire felt stiflingly warm, and Harla took another mouthful, followed by a happy sigh.
“That’d be the wanderlust, on my mum’s side, so I’m told. Downright improper for any self-respecting hobbit,” Here she mimicked the disapprovingly affronted hobbits in question, pointing reproachfully at the air in front of her. “Or so say all the self-respecting hobbits, apparently, but what would they know, eh? Hiding away and trusting that everyone’ll keep ignoring them if they keep ignoring everyone else…” the end of her sentence turned into a small burp, and she felt herself blush hotly. The others just laughed, and after a moment she grinned as well, then continued. “Anyway, I couldn’t just work the bounds, deal with all their stupid complaints all day. I know the little things are important, an’ all that, but I need to be out and doing, helping, y’know?” She took a moment to drink from her mug again; it really was too warm in here. “Always been a bit tougher’n most, so I though guardian for hire’d be a good way to help.” To forestall the laughter she was sure was coming, she stopped to raise an eyebrow and look at each of them in turn. “An’ before you say I’m too small, think about all the blows I’m just the right height for, eh?” This also raised a chuckle, but one with a touch more appreciation, she hoped. Glynn said something about one in particular not being so bad, but she didn’t catch it clearly as he muffled the comment behind his mug. The others apparently heard him well enough, because they laughed again, louder, and Harla found herself joining in, caught in the atmosphere. As she drained the rest of her mug, Gadaric caught her attention.
“Ready for the next one, little lady? This one’s the kicker.” As he spoke, she found Glynn replacing the mug in her hand with a fresh one he’d pulled from a different keg. Gadaric continued. “This one’s our own dear, knock-you-boots-off Forsaken Cider. Not so many stories about this stuff, but only for the fact that fewer folk remember much about drinking it in the first place.” His laughter was echoed by the others as Harla took a drink.

For a moment the liquid was like fire in her throat and she blinked a few times, leaning back as the sensation obliterated all other tastes and smells lingering in her awareness. Then she took another mouthful. It was a coarse cider, brutally so, and would never be called a fine drink, but at the same time it was the sort of harsh taste that made her want to refresh the sensation once it faded. She looked at the pint, half empty before she realized it.
“What’d you make this stuff from? It’s like… like... nothing I can think of, that’s for sure.” Her three companions had been watching her reaction, and they smirked now. Brightwood shook his head.
“Isn’t that the truth? Nothing’ll put a fire in your gut on a cold night like this stuff.”
“Aye, and if we knew the exact makings of it, you can be sure we’d brew our own as well!” Gadaric chipped in, pouring himself another in the process. Glynn was watching her, head to the side.
“You handled that better’n most, an’ far better’n I’d expect any young hobbit to. You must be made of sterner stuff than such a pretty face tells, hmm?” Harla felt herself blushing, more fiercely this time, though whether it was his remarks, the fire, the drink or a mix of everything, she couldn’t tell. Rather than answer, she found herself giggling, and waved one hand at him before hiding her features in finishing her mug. Still blushing by the time it was empty, she raised it sheepishly for a refill, another small giggle escaping in the process. After a fresh mouthful she sighed aloud, leaning her head back and setting the mug down for a moment. Leaning on one hand, the other plucked at her shirt strings, loosening them off. It was just too hot to have them done up fully. She glanced across at Glynn again.
“You say that, but pretty was one of the last words anyone would have called me growing up. I wasn’t so popular, really.” On her other side, Gadaric scoffed, looking across at her, or rather, at her now more opened shirt-top.

“Now you’re fishing, young lady. You’re the fairest thing that’s walked through these doors this side of a month, and I’ll wager you know it.” It was a moment before she realized where his gaze was, and she wondered if she hadn’t made a bad move, but the rest of her was too busy preening silently to care. She took another mouthful, trying to work out just how much of a compliment it really was, especially coming from someone other than a hobbit. The hot flush in her cheeks hadn’t abated yet, but was becoming more of a warm tingle she could happily ignore. Glynn was speaking again, and she glanced up at him, blinking.
“…and that’s for sure. And capable too, if you’re working as a guardian, at your young age. You must have had more than a small handful of young hobbit lads linin’ up to court you by now.”
At that Harla laughed, finished the end of her mug, then laughed again.
“Hah! Courting, huh? That what you’re calling it then? Heheheh.” She took another swig form her mysteriously refilled mug. “Courtin’s what happens to Primrose Longburrow and her innocent-flower, defenseless dress-wearin’ lot. Me, it’s just boys tryin’ to catch you in the apple orchards and get their hand and other things places proper girls’d never allow!” She shook her head. “An’ you do allow, ’cause you know courtin’s something that’s never going to happen to you anyhow, ’n you may as well have some fun while you can. But it doesn’t matter how quiet you try to keep it, word gets out somehow, an’ your chances of findin’ a real sweetheart, or anything proper like that slip further an’ further away. So you let a few more boys get what they’re after, ’cause, you know, the damage’s done anyhow, an’ they’ll all be whisperin’ that it’s five an’ not one, whether it is or not, so where’s the harm? An’ then there’s all the looks, ’n the whispers, an’ there’s nothing you can do, ’cause now half of it’s true anyway, until even the boys an’ girls you stood up for, an’ fought for, an’ got black eyes for as a kid are smirkin’ at you, an’ spreadin’ the tales as much as the rest!” Somewhere along the way her derisive laughter has transformed into a very bitter sniffle, and she hid her face in her mug. The others had remained silent through her ramble, but now there came a comforting arm about her shoulders.

“Easy there… I’ll be, where’re my manners, I’ve not even asked your name yet, lass.” Harla snorted.
“ ’s ok. Men don’t. They know already, ‘n that’s why they’re talkin’ to me, or else they don’t care anyway, ’n they never need to find out.” When the hand didn’t go away, she looked up. “ ’s Harla. Just Harla, ‘cause I never ‘ad any family after my mum died giving birth to me. Grew up a ‘ward of the shire’, ‘cause I ‘ad no kin as stepped forward to take me in. Raised me real well, ‘the shire’ did, hah…” The hand squeezed her shoulder lightly. It was Glynn, she worked out, tracing it back to its owner.
“Well, Miss Harla, I’m Glynn Harper, and this is Candac Brightwood, and Gadaric Munce, and you’re not back there now, and there’s no one as will judge you here that’s for sure.” He rubbed her on the back before reclaiming his mug and taking sip. Another voice spoke up, Brightwood, across from her.
“I will. If you’ve made up your mind to get out in the world and help and protect other people, even after all that, then whatever else you may be, I’d judge you to be a fine young lady, the very best kind, in fact. Would that there were more like you. So I think the shire did a fine job of bringing you up. Far better then those that did for any who think poorly of you.”
“Aye, an’ for no more’n knowing there’s no harm in a bit of fun without strings!” That was Gadaric, followed by all three raising their mugs to toast ‘fun without strings’ with a laugh. Harla grinned as well, in spite of herself, and raised her mug with them after a moment. She scrubbed at her nose and eyes, then looked around at the others.
“Ever notice how they never sneer an’ laugh, or think bad of the boys for chasin’? Boys are never bad for chasin’, just girls for getting caught. Where’s the fairness in that? It doesn’t make any sense!”
“Here here!” Glynn raised his pint to Harla a second time. “Here’s to lettin’ the boys be the bad ones for a change, eh?” He flashed his teeth at her. “An’ speakin’ of bad, I know just what’ll get you in good spirits again, miss Harla. That being some good spirits!” There was a nod from the others, but the joke confused Harla enough to make her tilt her head.
“Didn’ think this place ’ad any.” Another devilish smile from Glynn. She was smiling too, now. It seemed to be contagious.
“Aye, most think so, and it’s true, mostly, but…” He disappeared beneath the bar for a moment, and returned with a large flask in each hand. They bore the image of seven stars in an arch across the front and, beneath, the label “Stars of Old” in fancy letters. “Best cider you’ll ever drink, my girl. Anlaf keeps a small stash set aside that he doesn’t sell to customers, for special occasions and the like, but I reckon getting such a beautiful young thing as yourself laughing again is as special an occasion as we’re like to see any time soon.” Harla giggled at the suggestion, and mugs were lined up for filling. As Brightwood put his flagon on the line, he raised his eyebrows at Harla.
“Besides, I’ll be out Bree-way soon anyhow, so I can get Anlaf a fresh supply and we’ll call it square.” He took an experimental sip after reclaiming his drink, and let his head fall back with a sigh. “Truly the gods’ own, this stuff.” Harla contemplated her own mug almost eagerly, the prospect of a good drink after the dubious brews previous more than a little tempting. The first drink sent a warm tingle all over her body and she giggled, taking another mouthful. She sighed, enjoying the aftertaste in her mouth and on her breath while the other three clinked mugs over her head. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware that that would normally annoy her, as with anything done deliberately over her head by taller folk, but she just wasn’t feeling it, which was nice. Instead, she took another long drink, settling back into the happy, buzzy feeling that was spreading through her.

The men were talking again, but Harla found her focus slipping away between sips. Rather, she was aware of the small knot at the end of her shirt ties, which she could feel pressing and shifting slightly between the shirt fabric and her skin. She plucked the annoyance out and away. There was another round of laughter as she looked up again, and she joined in, putting her mug down for a moment. A hand was rubbing her back, Glynn, she thought, and she rolled her shoulders with a sigh. Another comment made her ears prick up and she looked up properly, blinking once or twice as she focused on Brightwood.
“ ’s nothin’ wrong with small breasts. ‘ere useful.” Laughter. “I mean, ’s practical, for adventurin’. What’re great big thin’s goin’ ’a do, ’sides get in the way, out there?” She nodded to herself and reclaimed her mug, draining it.
“Aye, aye, true that, true that.”
“No complaints here, miss Harla.” The second voice was Glynn, accompanied by a laugh from Gadaric. The hand rubbing her back had somehow moved around to her front in an appreciative fashion. Harla looked down at it, not quite sure what to make of the adventurous digits, and reached for her mug instead, which was a simpler prospect. Getting at the fresh supply of liquid within proved more difficult this time, however, as she managed to bump the edge of the mug hard against her teeth. The shock made her jerk backwards suddenly, spilling a goodly amount over, and down, her top. She made a face, setting the mug down again, and pulled the now damp garment over her head, drying herself off with a dry part of it. It was a few more moments, after she had dropped the shirt beside her, that her mind connected what she had done and why her friends had all cheered. No one seemed upset though, and she didn’t feel like putting the wet top back on again. She blushed and giggled, burying her face in her mug again as one of them complimented her on the neat, if less than bountiful, assets she had now revealed. The appreciation was shared, it seemed, by the hand the returned to gently exploring her now exposed chest, and by another new hand, sliding across the line of her back and curve of her hip. She stretched, sighing at the sensation of the touches and stifled a yawn in another drink. There were voices still, but she wasn’t focusing on what they were saying. None of it sounded like it was directed at her anyhow.

Harla glanced around the room, sipping from her mug again. The sound of talk and laughter seemed muffled somehow and she blinked a few times trying to keep the room in focus. The attempt was confounded as the hands at her waist gripped and lifted, and she found herself carried for a moment, before being set down again, now on the table top by the fire, instead of the bar. Her attention was drawn to the side where one of the men stood close by her. He had undone is pants and was now touching her with something else entirely. She blinked at it for a moment before he took her hand and placed it gently on the stiff length. Right. She knew how to do this. Gripping the shaft more firmly, she began to move her hand up and down. Her fingers barely fit around the girth, compared to previous hobbit-owned specimens, and she leaned in as her hand pulled down to give the exposed head an experimental lick, then another, running her tongue over and around the tip. Her hand continued to pump as she licked and sucked gently, but soon she found her other hand being guided to a similar task. It was too hard to concentrate on both at once, and both hands simply fell into an even rhythm instead. As she licked and kissed at the one in her first hand, she paused, then opened her lips wider. She pushed down over his tip and head, but didn’t feel she could go any further comfortably. Holding that much, she let her tongue do its work on the inside, working more moisture into her mouth. After a few moments, she pulled away and leaned the other way to address the member in her other hand. She’d never done two at once before, it was too much to think about while her face felt hot and her eyes tired and heavy. She could vaguely hear sounds of appreciation, though, so she was probably doing it right.

Pausing for another drink, Harla found the mug supplied to her reaching hand, then lay back on the table top, looking up at the ceiling through lidded eyes. The hand that had stopped was guided back on target as both handfuls moved with her to her new position. They were both much closer to her face now as well, and she could lick and suck at either without having to shift her head too much. Much better.

A cold draught around her nethers drew her eyes downwards lazily, and she could see her legs held up bodily, while a pair of hands worked her leggings off. That would be why. Pleased with this little deduction, her gaze drifted back to the work of her hands and tongue, when a warm sensation at her groin pulled her eyes down again. Looking between her breasts, she could see her legs propped up, heels against her rear on the edge of the table, and between them, sparkling eyes looking up at her under a head of blonde hair. Funny man. Glynn, that was his name. She heard a faint gasp as the sensation continued. Hers, she realised. One hand was massaging her breast, another stroking her hair. The latter held her more firmly and she felt the head in her mouth press in deeper of its own accord. Her mouth felt too full and uncomfortable for a moment, then it was gone again, then back. The rhythm picked up and Harla stopped trying herself, letting her eyes drift shut while it did all the work. It pulled all the way out and a finger on her jaw line turned her head towards the other one, which also started to thrust more deeply into her mouth.

She heard herself groan aloud as the three worked around her. The sensation at her groin had become distinctly uncomfortable as well, and her eyes sought uncertainly for her pint. Finding it, she tried to drink, but most of it spilled all over her chest. Something was making her body shake roughly. She manage to down the remainder, holding the mug in both hands now, while her vision slid down over the rim, tow here she could see Glynn’s torso. He was standing now, holding her legs under each knew with his hands. He was saying something to the others as her attention was drawn back to a length pushing against her lips again. It filled her mouth and pressed against the entrance to her throat, but didn’t withdraw immediately. Instead, the hand caressing her hair became a firm pressure as the shaft pushed further, forcing its way into her throat. One hand jumped up, trying to press back against the man’s hip in weak protest as the thick member cut off her air supply and she struggled not to gag. It throbbed in her throat for a moment longer before it withdrew, leaving her to gasp, coughing violently. As she spluttered and sucked breath, she shaking of her body became more violent and the sounds Glynn was making grew louder. It stopped a moment later as the uncomfortable feeling in her groin blossomed into several spikes of stretched and sore pain. She tried to focus her eyes on the man holding her legs, moaning a protest that fell into a mumble as it passed lips that no longer felt up to forming proper words. He said something back, but it was mostly a fuzzy haze.

He disappeared from her sight a moment later and she lay back, rubbing at her sore crotch while she gazed, eyes lidded, at the ceiling. Then hands, at her waist. She felt her body lifted and turned, though all she felt like was lying still now. She blinked as her gaze shifted, looking now at the rough wood of the table. She was kneeling, no, standing… She tried to concentrate on working out where her limbs were. Her feet were standing on the seat of the table, but she was bent forward, with her hands on the table top. That was it. She tried to sink down again, to resettle, but a pair of hands held her hips, while another supported her shoulders. Something was running down her leg. A finger brushed along her cheek bone and under her chin, lifting her face up from where it hung down between her arms. She forced her eyelids open properly to find nothing worth looking at when something warm and slippery poked at her lips. Her eyes drifted shut again as it made its way past her lips and into her mouth. She felt herself pressed forward, taking more of it into her mouth as something pushed at her from behind, that unpleasant sensation in her groin returning.

Something in Harla’s mind was telling her that she ought to stay awake as the men either side of her found a rhythm that rocked her body back and forth, but she just wanted to rest. Her eyes flicked open again a moment later, however, as a hard thrust forced the hard shaft deep into her throat and a thick fuzz of pubic hair brushed her face. Before her body could react, it pulled back, replaced by and equally violent thrust form the other direction that made her grunt in discomfort around her mouthful, even as the motion shoved her forward again, back onto it. The possibility of falling asleep vanished as her throat was violated again, and reflexively she tried to swallow, making the hands supporting her shoulders grip tight. Their rhythm grew swiftly rougher and faster, and her jaw, stretched wide, began to hurt as much as her nethers already did. The motion grew erratic and broken as the got faster, until one of the hands at her shoulders lifted to the back of her head, pressing her face hard up against hips that thrust into her with a harsh finality. Her eyes watered as she felt the length throbbing in her abused throat twitch and spurt, spilling thick, gooey fluid down her neck. The other one was still thrusting away behind her, but Harla was only interested in getting a breath and clear airways. She pushed against he man with one hand, unsteady, and he obliged, pulling away. As the now softer length withdrew it left a taste of the odd tasting stuff in her mouth, and she coughed and hacked, gasping for air. Behind her, the other man seemed to reach his limit and thrust against her hard enough to make her wince and cry out in pain as he buried himself in her as deeply as he could. He withdrew slightly and slammed in again, eliciting another cry, before subsiding and pulling away from her at last.

Harla sank to the table top, rolling onto her side and curling up slightly, hands between her legs. She looked around for something to drink, and Glynn was there offering her a mug. She took it with a shaking hand and found, thankfully, that it was just water this time. The first mouthful she washed around her mouth and spat out again, before draining the rest of the mug. It slipped from her hand as she tried to set it down through failing eyelids, and she mumbled at them to all leave her alone before sleep finally took hold

It was a rough hand shaking her that brought Harla around in the morning, and she opened bleary eyes to meet the concerned face of Anlaf looking own at her, or rather, trying not to look directly at her. She blinked at him, groggy, while her mind tried to process the situation through a throbbing headache. When realization dawned a moment later, she muffled the urge to yell and sought desperately for her clothes, trying to cover herself while doing so. Anlaf turned his back once he was sure she was awake.
“It’s not hard to work out what went only last night, miss Harla, and I thought you might have known better than to let those scoundrels lead you on and get their way. Please though, you must hurry and get yourself cleaned up and dressed. Old Mugwort would like have a heart attack if he came upstairs to find you like this, and then we’d be without a cook!” After pulling her now stained shirt on, Harla sought to clean herself quickly. Fortunately, most of the, ugh, fluid, had dried into flakes she could brush off, and she found what was probably a dish rag to wipe up with for the rest. She scowled as she finished dressing herself, annoyed as much at herself as everything else. She ought to have more control, and foresight.

Without offering any words, Harla retreated downstairs to collect her things, muttering to herself as she struggled quickly into her armour and shrugged her pack on. By the time she returned to the common room, he found Glynn up and about, stoking the fire to keep it going. He grinned at her when he looked up, but received only a glare in response.
“Quite the scowl there, my girl. Sore head?”
“You took advantage of me, Master Harper, and I do not appreciate it.” He pouted at her, somehow still affecting a smirk through it.
“Harsh words, lass, just for a bit of fun”
“At no point did I ascent to anything that went on last night. Perhaps I ought to insert my club somewhere you’d find unpleasant, just for a bit of fun, hmm?”
“Ah, but see, I’d object to that, dear, and being a decent person, you’d stop as soon as I did. At no point last night did I hear you raise any objections though.” At this point, Anlaf cuffed the younger man over the back of the head.
“The lady clearly didn’t care for your attentions, Harper, or your friends’, now admit you’ve wronged her, and see if you can make it up.” Glynn scowled at the other man.
“An’ I say I didn’t do no wrong. If she didn’t want to, then she ought to have said. I’ve regretted plenty of things I did with a few drinks in me, after the fact, but that never meant I cold go an’ blame everyone about me for it.”
“That’s no comparison, Glynn. You owe—” Harla stopped grinding her teeth as their increasing volume made her head hurt, and turned, leaving the pair to argue with each other as she stormed from the inn.

Outside, a fresh breeze made her stop and inhale. She closed her eyes and forced herself to calm down, breathing deeply in and out as she listened to the sounds of the morning. What was done, was done. Moving on. Shifting her pack on her shoulders, Harla opened her eyes and looked down the road to Bree, then glanced up. She could be there by noon, probably, and hopefully get something decent to eat. There was no way she was staying around here for breakfast; that much was certain. She set off at a brisk walk.

====================