Aragorn sat in a dimly lit corner of the Prancing Pony, his weathered hands tracing the lines on a tattered map of Middle-earth. As the muffled voices and laughter of the tavern patrons filled the air, a sudden crash erupted from the other side of the room, followed by the unmistakable sounds of a bar fight. Ignoring the chaos, he continued to study the map, his eyes narrowing in determination, for he knew that their journey to Mordor was perilous, and time was running out.