|
The hmmmph! from the wren was cut off as Stamo plucked him from his shoulder and held him up to his face. ‘Hush!’ he whispered letting the bird balance on his finger. ‘The Green Man’s ale has made you bold, and we will not always be near to act as your protectors.
And besides,’ Mori interjected, speaking to both his companion and the wren. ‘This is a special set of days in this part of Middle-earth, or so I am given to believe by what’s been told to me. There is a truce of sorts in effect, enmities are put aside for this short while, and tolerance come to the fore.’ He turned back to where Tevildo and his friends were standing. ‘Your pardon, please. We’ve been less than welcoming. Come, sit near the coals and warm yourselves. And then, of course, your story, please.’
The poor wren was beginning to shiver in the cold, and Stamo tucked him back inside a pocket in his cape. There were a string of short exclamations, muffled by the thick wool of the cape. And just as well . . . Stamo could just make out another hmmph! and a mumbled sore losers! followed by whiner!.
Luckily, for the peace of the gathering and the sake of a tale yet to be told, Stamo’s body heat and the soft, thick warmth of the pocket overcame the wren’s feisty attitude. Soon, the only sounds escaping from the folds of the robe were that unmistakable sounds of the bird’s beaky snore.
|