[Garen LiLorian]

The huge beasts entered the tavern, jaws slavering and eyes gleaming with reflected firelight. Sitting alone in the corner, where he had retired after his song, Garen LiLorian watched them come, and gripped his spear to him. He noted the crowd shrinking away, and the outraged glare of the Dwarven innkeeper. His eyes were drawn briefly to the calm, collected form of a thirty-something Man, who alone of the crowd seemed unfazed by the entrance of the dark and fearsome beasts. The eldest of these spoke, and his words were foul and mangled, yet understandable. Garen had seen and heard of many things in his day, but a Warg professing no ill intent surpassed even his credulity. He feared a trick, and his eyes passed again over the company, this time noting who might be of use in a fight, and who would need protecting. His leg throbbed, and he stifled a groan of pain. It might be that he, for the first time in his life, would fall into the second category, he thought to himself grimly.
Then he raised himself from his bench, and, spoke to the Dwarven landlord, his eyes and spear point never leaving the younger, and apparently more hostile of the two Wargs pacing the floor. "Sir" he said, "This is your house, and I will abide by your decision, whether it be to let the beast talk or to drive it forth into the night, yet I like not the idea of such a fell creature as this profaning your house, and I would be glad for the opportunity to set my father's spear, Moriecalmo, to use, to drink the blood of such a foul beast, and send it wailing into the darkness. The decision is yours." He set himself in readyness, favoring his right leg. The younger Warg took note, and grinned, his tongue lolling from between blackened and awful teeth.