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Falco had been in the mess hall for some time, smoking for the most part. The missus of the place - (what was her name? It started with "F" he thought, and was aghast when a female version of Frodo Baggins came into his thought; he closed his eyes and shook his head to clear the thought away) - the Missus of the place had seen to it that he never got too much to drink all at once. It was just as well, though she had little understanding of a Hobbit's natural ability to hold his brew.
He was working on a fresh tankard now, since it had gotten around time for the evening meal. The savory smell of stew and bread was coming from the kitchen, and Falco saw the first platters being taken out. No hurry, he would get his soon enough.
The men had started to arrive in the hall. Most of them walked back and forth, some stealing glances his way. He smirked. These were shy folk! Then one of them came near. Oh. It was Thornden. Falco wondered if he still had a nettle under his skin like he had earlier that day when he'd spoken so harshly. Well, Falco thought, we'll see how he comports himself.
“May I sit by you for a moment?” Thornden asked.
"Suit yourself," Falco said noncommittally.
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