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Snaveling made his way into the Common Room slowly, his stomach beginning to roar already. The smell of freshly baked scones dripping with butter and honey had brought him from his dreams, and the smell of frying bacon had dragged him from the straw of the stables. Now that he stood amid the tables he realised how hungry he was and lamented again the loss of his purse. He looked about to see if Mithalwen had come down yet, for he felt sure that he could borrow a coin or two from her for his breakfast. (His newfound wealth had not yet removed his lack of scruples when it came to borrowing money.) The Elf was nowhere to be seen, and the rest of the people there were strangers to him, but for the little hobbit lass who had cried at him yesterday when the cake had splattered across his chest. She looked at him again and made a sour face but then turned away, blushing. Snaveling was about to move along in search of the kitchens – where he knew he could count on Cook to give him some provender gratis just to get him out from underfoot – when the elderly hobbit sitting across from the girl looked his way, attracted, no doubt, but the little girl’s sudden change in mood.
As the Halfling glanced at Snaveling, the Man noticed two things. First, that the hobbit was in a terrible humour for some reason – and judging by his complexion it probably had something to do with the festivities of the night before. Second, there was a large plate of food before the Halfling that he had not touched, and which he showed little signs of wanting to eat (and again, Snaveling noted his complexion). The Man had spent too many years a beggar to have a few months of finery and wealth overcome a lifetime’s habit of making shift when needed, and he had spent too much time learning the ways of the King’s Court not to know how to please when needed. Meeting the Halfling’s gaze he smiled broadly and stepped toward the table. “Good morning,” he said amiably. “I do not believe that we have made our introductions. I am Snaveling,” and he stuck out his hand.
The Halfling paused before returning the gesture, saying gruffly, “I’m Falco Headstrong. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” sounding all the time as though he was not pleased for anything of the sort. “This here is Marigold,” he said indicating the lass across from him. Snaveling bowed to her in the grandest manner he could. “Yes, she and I have already met, in a way, and it is on her account that I have approached you. Please, Mistress Marigold, accept my apologies for my clumsiness of yesterday. At the time, I believe, I upset you and may have even given you a sharp look. May I join you for breakfast?” he asked quickly, his eyes inadvertently slipping to Falco’s still untouched, but rapidly cooling plate of food, “So that we can talk of merrier things and drive away the unpleasantness of our first encounter?”
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