"What brings you to the Green Dragon, Master Falco?" asked the Elf woman Vanwë lightly, her now clean fingers curved gracefully around the stem of her wine glass. Falco was awed by Elves any day, being strictly a Shire Hobbit, but this Elf woman was as friendly as he'd ever seen, and did not seem as old as the earth itself as he'd heard most of 'em were from the tales the Veterans of the War had brought back from places far away.
"This here lout," Falco gestured behind him with an exposed thumb. The unkempt man sitting on the edge of his seat glanced their way briefly, his pale blue eyes cool and untrusting. "He's the one what found the satchel up north away, the one belonging to that King's Messenger from Rohan you've up and lost. The harp was all busted up, you'd think someone had used it for hammering pegs or some such. Anyways, this here fellow says he wants to come here, says he's obliged to follow this through." Falco bent closer and winked for Vanwë and the two men conspiratorially. "I bet it's the first time he figured hisself obliged about anything. Nasty lookin' sort, if you take my meaning. I wonder who he calls his friends."
"I heard you," said the man whose stench mitigated the pleasantness of the wine and present company. "I am no Ruffian, if that's what you're gettin' at. I'm obliged to prove it an' that's the only reason I'm here." The man's gravelly voice was harsh to the ears, as if he used it seldom.
"So you say, so you say," said Falco. "I'll be lookin' for you to prove it."
"I will soon as I get vittles in me and a decent place to eat it." He looked at the nearby tables with ill-disguised revulsion on his face for those currently at table.
"Funny," said Falco, "him lookin' so uppity at us all when he's no beauty hisself, eh? So what do you make of him?" Falco looked from eye to eye to see who would be first to confirm his opinion, sure that they must see, even though they were no Hobbits, that the man was not to be trusted.
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