h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

The air was thick with smoke and rank with the tang of stale ale.

A stewpot boiled in the hearth, meaty droplets sizzling as they dripped into the embers.

Four tables stood in the small room, each boasting one or two men, slumped in ale, or playing bones.

A young girl moved between the tables, ale jug in each hand, topping up the cups even as they were emptied.

By the hearth, a hooded barkeep stirred the pot, bent frame silhouetted against the crackling flames.

All conversation stopped as the patrons looked up and saw the stranger enter, two huge hounds at his sides.

Chairs scraping backwards on the flagged floors, even the drunkards seemed to sense the presence of the outsider, and stirred in their stupor.

*Good evening to you all, me and my boys just seek an ale or two, some of that fine smelling stew mayhaps, and shelter from the rain. I've travelled far, and mean no disturbance to you fine gentlefolk.*

*Take a stool, or warm thyself at the hearth, I'll fetch a cup, and a bowl for your bears!* The maid smiled at him, putting down her ale jugs to scratch the dogs' eager heads.

*It seems my bears have taken a liking to you already lassie! Ale for me, just water for the hounds, if you please, they get frisky after a drink!*

The barkeep straightened up from his tasks, throwing a few scraps to the dogs.

*If I know that accent, and those hounds, you've travelled far indeed boy. Tell me, from over the Irish Sea?*

*Indeed Sir, but born and bred in Cilgwri, a forest boy.*

The barkeep barked a sound, almost a laugh.

*Cilgwri is it? Why, I haven't heard that name for many a year, Celt?*

*My roots are here, Sir, but,* Rulf decided to take a chance, *but I was raised in a place called Veðrafjorðr.*

*Again, a name from the past! And tell me boy, the hounds? Are they to poke around in the embers of my old memory too?*

Rulf was a little puzzled at the question but replied, *The Wolfhound are mine and mine alone Sir, bred and raised from whelps on my father's homestead. The best in all Ireland, if not the world, are the hounds of Lord Eóghan*

At the mention of his patron's name, the barkeep's hand shot out with surprising speed, grasping Rulf's head and pulling off his cap.

The hounds snarled menacingly, but the barkeep ignored their display, gently pushing Rulf's wet hair to one side, exposing the faint scar.

The old man removed his own hood, in turn exposing his own badly scarred face.

*By Odin's beard, welcome home little brother!*

Rulf stood, open mouthed, as the dogs growled, and Tadhg hugged him hard enough to make his ribs creak!

Oh, good job!

Good to know Tadgh survived after all!

This is wonderful!