Reynion groaned. His head was near bursting, what with the irrepressible Morlathion pressing ale on him most of the evening, and his own desire to escape the memories of the ruin of Greenwood. It had taken a great deal longer for him to go under than usual, perhaps because it was Shire ale, and not Dorwinion wine. His leg was lying on the floor, and he distractedly wondered just how it had gotten there.
He looked around. Morlathion seemed to have disappeared sometime ago, for there was only an overturned mug to mark that the so-clumsy elf had ever been there. This morning, that was how Reynion preferred it anyway. If he'd had any real friends, they would likely flee in from his mood when he woke with a hangover. Still, the headache (he did not get sick, thank Elbereth) would serve to keep his mind off of the faces of the elves who had died when Greenwood fell.
He bent over to reattach his wooden leg, and nearly knocked his head against the bar. He sat up slowly, careful not to jar his head anymore than it already was, then bent again to reach the polished wood. The leather straps didn't seem to want to go into the buckles, and he was seeing double. It looked like it was going to be one of those days.
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