[Belin]

Late again! Belin Ibaimendi stared in frustration at the great door of the inn, which was quite cleverly and thoroughly locked. It was safe indeed, she thought, as safe from windblown travelers as from whatever it was that he wished to guard against. She sighed irritably and knocked on the door. "Dwarin!" she cried. "What are you doing?"

Ridiculous. The door was as thick as a young tree, shutting out even the voice of the wind, a far more powerful voice than her own. She considered for a moment, picked up a convenient stone that lay nearby, and pounded on the door with it.

A moment later, the harried face of the innkeeper appeared, and he welcomed her in, closing the door again after her. Belin carefully stowed the stone away.

"You're not keeping it barred, are you?"

"Interruptions," explained Dwarin briefly, his eyes still focused on the goings-on around him. "People are trying to tell stories in here, you know. We can't simply have Wargs wandering in and out..."

"An important business indeed," answered Belin, "and one worthy of listeners. Me, for instance." She stroked the long red feather she wore in her hat, noting the strange looks she'd garnered from the rowdy hobbits for looking like a dwarf and dressing like a Shirriff. She grinned. In another town of the Shire, they'd overcome this confusion by renaming her as Belinda Brandybuck. "Well, perhaps more polite than I've been. Of whose story spoke we now?"

"Oh, we were between," answered Parin, smiling.

"Not exactly," answered Dwarin, "Parin needs help, and if this inn isn't the place to find it, then it certainly ought to be." He looked around the room, pausing for effect. It would have worked better if one of the hobbits hadn't chosen that moment to spill his ale, but the dwarf refused to be daunted. "Anyone?"