Seleven nodded and smiled, "Dwarves are strange folk," he said, "but no doubt the ways of men or elves are strange to them. My father hated them, he once said of Dwarves, 'they hide away, aiding the world not at all. If I had my way, they'd be cast to the sea.' old fool." Seleven stopped himself before he said something harsh. Although he had not liked his father, he still had to respect him, even if he was a tyrant.
"Seldome is it heard," he continued, "that in these days, Sindarin Elves make friendship with Dwarves. Unless they were Legolas of the woodland realm and Gimli, Gloin's son. But they are rare cases. Magnificent folk, really, a little crazy about Gold, but they have good hearts deep down."
An old Hobbit dashed behind Cariâthwen, he was shouting and making a noise about something to a friend of his across the room. Seleven smiled and placed the pipe in his mouth once again, looking towards Cariâthwen with a sense of familiarity. The Green Dragon had gained a reputation of being a place where you can meet unusual folk, a reputation the Hobbits were not at all happy with, but the Inn enjoyed the extra business.
"I say," said Seleven as he leant forwards, "you're an elf of Lorien, perhaps you know, or heard tell of the Haradrim leader Smilog. I see from your face that you have not, perhaps that is good." He fished in his pack for another piece of paper, he drew it and read aloud.
"From the Lord high King of all in South Gondor to the self proclaimed watchman of the tower upon Anruin, Greetings.
"I Smilog, Lord and master of all Lands south of your post declare that you are trespassing on land that belongs solely to Sauron and to me. I give you till noon upon the fourth day since midyear to leave your post and return to Minas Tirith. Else we shall take your hold by force.
"May your fear by unbound,
"Smilog, King and Emperor."
Seleven shook his head and placed the paper back in his pack, "A sad tale really," he explained, "Smilog was once called Túlan, and was a good friend of mine, before the War of the Ring when he joined the haradrim. He thinks himself mighty and calls himself Lord of lands he hath not conquered. His strength was not in arms, but in fear he struck to hearts. He had, it was said, met a Nazgul, and was therefore untouchable by fear of death." Seleven snorted, "That was later proven false. Ah, but look at me, rambling on like an old tale weaver. Do tell me some of your history, I do love tales and adventures told in tales." he leant back with his pipe in his mouth and a glass of port in the left hand.