Absent-mindedly composing for their vulpine companion, the poet strolled to where the be-webbed lady stood. "Charlotte?" asked he impudently, and to her outrage, winked at her! The nerve of the man! She wished to tell him in strident terms of her age and standing but something in the raffish smile gave her pause for thought. The worrisome wordsmith felt more fully familiar than she had forethought.
She glanced at the page he held before him; noticing that his eyes remained on her, whilst the quill continued its spidery path.
Fox in the snow,
Where do you go
To find something you can eat?
Because the word out on the street is you are starving.
Don't let youself go hungry now;
Don't let youself go cold.
At least not any more.
What do they know anyway?
They read it in a book.
What do they know, anyway?
You read it in a book tonight.
Some foul modern verse, she assumed. No scansion, and as for metre! She despaired. Yet she smiled back and said, "Welcome, oh poet-litterer of ill-repute. What brings so insalubrious a character to this fine gathering?"
His eyes rolled, encompassing the horde of wraiths, wights, dragons, ghosts, miscellaneous hobbitry and overly mysterious men and women.
"For shame!" quoth he, "that so gentle an entrance as mine be graced by so tart a greeting! At least a drink, for the Forest parches the word-thieves such as myself."
She gazed at him steadily. The dragon belched far behind them and some scorched hobbits squealed. She sighed. It would be a long day.
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And all the rest is literature
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