[Airerûthiel]

Airerûthiel retreats to her corner once again, only stopping to obtain another pint of ale. The talk of wargs disturbs her, bringing back the painful memories of that fateful night when she was just ten years old, although it seems like a lifetime ago. Her hand strays to the hilt of Minyacirith, her father's blade and the only trinket she carries to remind herself of her past.

On her way back to her seat, she realises that she did not tell the maiden who spoke the Elven tongue her name. She notices that the young woman sits alone at the bar, and feels sympathetic towards what appears to be a fellow Ranger after a fashion. As she reaches Elwen, she begins to speak to her.

"Forgive my impoliteness in not introducing myself, Elwen. They call me Airerûthiel, and I am a wanderer from the lands of the south. Like yourself, I am new to this place compared to most of those around you." She extends a weathered hand from beneath her slightly torn dark cloak and takes in the entire pub in one sweep. Taking another swig of her ale, she asks, "So what brings you to the Green Dragon?"