The Sign of the Prancing Pony by Uvatha the Horseman

The Prancing Pony Sign

Nob stood across from the Prancing Pony, taking in every detail of the tavern sign which hung high above the street from an iron bracket. On it, a white stallion rearing up on its hind legs against a green background, and letters in careful white script declared the name of the Inn, The Prancing Pony.

The germ of an idea was beginning to form.

Nob went back inside before he was missed. On his way down to the kitchens, he saw Bob, the other hobbit servant who worked here, carrying an armload of firewood to the rooms upstairs.

“Bob, the first of April is coming up. I’m thinking that, in honor of the occasion, we should do something with the tavern sign.”

The young hobbit stared at him. “I thought you were happy here. Why would you want to prank the sign?”

“You don’t understand. If the first of April came and went, and we did nothing, Mr. Barliman would think we didn’t care about him. It would be like not wishing him a happy birthday. He’d be hurt.”

A line appeared between the younger hobbit’s eyes, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him.

“Just come outside and have a look at the sign. I just want your advice. It will take five minutes of your time.”

“Do what you want, but leave me out of it,” said Bob.

“You can have my dessert,” said Nob.

A few minutes later they stood in the street, looking up at the sign.

“We can’t do anything to the sign itself. We’d get in too much trouble,” said Bob.

Nob turned to go back inside, his toes dragging on the cobbles. Why had he thought this was a good idea?

Bob turned his attention back to the sign. “But we could swap it out for a different one.”

Nob perked up. “So, all we’d have to do is get a slab of wood about the same size, and paint it?”

“And install the hardware to drop over those hooks.”

Nob looked where Bob was pointing. The tavern sign hung from a pair of iron hooks on the underside of the sign bracket.

“Are you sure it comes off?” asked Nob.

“Oh aye. Last year, before you got here, they took it down to touch up the paint.  It was me that lifted it from the hooks and brought it down the ladder, and me that hung it up again. It wasn’t hard.”

“It looks like they made iron fittings to hang the sign over the hooks. We don’t have anything like that.”

“A pair of iron staples would work fine, but we’d have to space them exactly right. Otherwise, when we tried to hang it, the sign would dangle by one corner.”

Nob peered at the sign, estimating the hook separation distance between his hands.

“Just so you know, that’s not how it’s done.” Bob went to the stables and came back with a ladder. He leaned it against the wall, just above the highest part of the archway.

The archway was a tunnel leading to the Inn’s inner courtyard, formed by the common room on one side and the stables on the other. The tavern sign hung above the highest point of the arch from a bracket the height of two men about the street. Men, not hobbits.

Nob put a foot on the lowest rung. When his feet reached the height of Bob’s knees, he froze. There was no solid wall behind the ladder, and there wouldn’t be until he reached the very top. Until then, he’d have to stare into the yawning mouth of the void.

Bob sounded concerned. “Do you want me to do it? You could stand on the ground and hold the ladder. It’s not all that steady on these cobblestones.” Nob climbed down and Bob shot up the ladder like a squirrel.

When he reached the top, he stood with one foot on the highest rung and held onto the sign bracket for balance. He took a piece of string from his pocket and stretched it across the top of the sign. “Between these two knots. That’s where we put our staples.”

Mr. Barliman appeared in the archway. “Bob. What do you think you’re doing?”

Bob jumped, and the ladder scraped against the stone.  It would have gone over completely if Nob hadn’t been holding it. “Oh, well. Since you ask, the thing is, now that you mention it, I’m cleaning some bird poop off the sign.”

“With a piece of string? Next time, you might want to use a rag.”