A tall elf walked into the Inn, swathed in a cloak that hid his body, but especially his left leg. He limped a little, with a slight clopping sound when he put his left leg down; he leaned on a solid oak staff. The hood of his black cloak was down, showing black hair braided in a no-nonsense style and weary grey eyes. His eyes scanned the room, observing several other elves, though none he recognized.
He stumped over to the bar and leaned on the counter, though he did not sit down. It was a bit disconcerting to watch him move, for though most elves are graceful, seeming always to dance, his movements were awkward and stiff.
One of the little hobbit waitresses came up to him, wanting to know what, if anything, he would like to drink and if there would be any food for him this day.
"Wine," he answered. "Dorwinion red, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."
"I'll see what I can do," she promised, and bustled away.
The elf looked around once more, then shut his eyes. It was a pity that he recognized none of the patrons of the Inn, for company would have been welcome. The faces of dear--and not-so-dear--friends, all d.ead, were pressing very close. As there was no one whom he knew, he would fall back on his secondary plan. Drinking himself into a stupor. It usually worked well enough.
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