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Heather
"Great place, this inn," Ravennar commented. "One could hardly expect rash words to be spoken here. One could hardly think that one's life could change in a place like this. Such are the inns of my country, also-or so I thought them to be. Strange, is it not, how strife can find a home even in the most peaceful places?"
“Aye, strange,” Heather sighed. “Trouble always finds a way to burrow in, doesn’t it?” She brushed a few crumbs from her skirt as an awkward silence fell between them. It was a sensation all too familiar to Heather.
The girl watched a tall elf stride out into the starlit darkness and sighed again, but this time it was a wistful sound. “Did you see fair folk when you lived in Dale? They always seem so tall and melancholy to me, on their way to the West and all. Someday they’ll all sail away from us. There has to be an end, I guess, even to them.” She shook herself and laughed. “Listen to me! But please, tell me about your elves of Mirkwood.”
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