Aragorn at the Inn of the Prancing Pony

Aragorn, son of Arathorn rides into Bree and ties up his horse at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. It is a damp, sombre afternoon. The light is already failing. Black clouds scud across the moors. A storm threatens. A raven alights and caws three times.

Throw your die: if you get three or more ..

No, stop!

The proprietor,  Barliman Butterbur, lurks at the check-in desk. A dark, brooding Aragorn enters and demands a room for the night.

Butterbur: "Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation?"

Aragorn: "I need a room for the night and my horse stabled."

Butterbur screws up his face in a moue of distaste. "I'm afraid I'm full, sir. You really should have called in advance - it's most inconvenient. Perhaps I can fit you in. What name is it?"

"Strider."

Well Mr Strider, you're in room 11. It is next to the kitchens, unfortunately. We have a party of  Nazgûl coming in later. Let me apologise in advance for the noise - they're here for the disco. Oh, and you'll find the WiFi code for your palantír in your room. Don't expect miracles."

Aragorn sits in his room. The fleas are lined up in orderly rows, queuing for their turn. The WiFi doesn't connect. The shower emits a thin stream of rusty cold water. The kettle doesn't work and they failed to provide his favourite (or indeed any) biscuits. The forthcoming meeting with Frodo is clearly not going to go well.

Aragorn comes to a chilling conclusion: this really is the last time I use TripAdvisor.

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© Nigel Seel. June 2018.

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