Niniel watched the strange elf who'd said that she loved orc blood warily. Strange taste. She couldn't understand how everyone in the Inn could be so welcoming, even of someone so--different. She was a stranger here, though hopefully not as strange as that elf. That hobbit, Cami?, had pulled her into the group, made her one of them. There were no distrustful glances out of the corners of eyes here. No hostility. For the first time in almost nine years of wandering, Niniel felt at ease.
She thought about asking the innkeeper, who she'd heard referred to as Aman, for something to drink other than ale, but didn't want to seem ungrateful to the hobbit who had been so kind. Nervously, she tugged at her hair. She wanted to meet some of these people. Perhaps especially the one called Hapman. He was entirely foreign to her experience with his incessant cheerfulness. She liked the change. Still, she was hesitant to approach any of the other customers. The thought of simply walking up to a total stranger terrified her.
As she slowly became more comfortable, the hardness in her face disappeared. She appeared younger, more vulnerable than before, though her eyes remained sad. Indeed, it appeared that at any moment, tears could well up gently and silently spill down her cheeks.
She had good reason. Sometimes, she could almost remember a father, who'd taught her her trade. Sometimes, she had nightmares about fire in the night and screams and a sense of losing everything. Those were the only indications of her past. Niniel had no idea how she knew what Elvish that she did, nor how she'd heard the stories of the ancient heroes. She liked the sad ones. Like the tale of Turin Turambar and his sister, Nienor. She'd always felt strangely akin to Nienor, who'd lost her memories, too. Except Nienor hadn't been a thief.
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