[Garen LiLorian]

The hour was late, and the Moon had already begun his descent towards the horizen. The door swung open, sending a gust of wind throught the tavern. The shape in the doorway was that of a Man, tall and fair, yet almost stumbling with weariness. He leaned upon his spear, and, using it as a crutch, he hobbled forward. Many hands helped him as he found his seat, and he thanked them courteously, his voice thick with the accents of the South. As if suddenly aware of the eyes upon him, he glanced around the room, his eyes noting with interest the swarthy Dwarves and riotous hobbits. He lingered for a moment on the exceptional form of the bustling innkeeper, and the ghost of a smile crossed his face, like a wisp of cloud driven by wind. When he spoke, his voice was soft, whether with pain or toil, or perhaps simply the voice of a man used to being listened to. "Sir Dwarf." Dwarin was busy. He had enlisted the help of one of the younger hobbits, and was trying in vain to hoist an inebriated Dwarf up the stairs. "Good ol' Dwarin," The Dwarf slurred, "always depend on him. Where is he?! Dwarin!" And, despite the best efforts of both the redoutable inkeeper and the young hobbit, the unfortunate Dwarf twisted to look out over the common room and pitched headfirst back down the stairs, where he lay in a heap, beyond any cares. "He'll be fine," Dwarin told the concerned hobbits, who had universally stopped their conversations to watch, "Just watch your step on your way to bed! Now," he said, hurrying over to the young man, "what can I be doing for ye? A beer, or dinner perhaps? I can set you up a room if you'd like. It's me last one, up in the attic, but better than being out in this wet. Why, I've never known it to be this cold, and it being almost Midsummer already." The Man, perhaps a bit flustered by the garrolous Dwarf's mile-a-minute monologue, answered shortly. "A room would be welcome. And something warm to eat."