[Deorlin]

Deorlin sniffed deeply at the air, the smell of freshly baked food wafting to his nostrils, making his belly growl. It was several days now since he had enjoyed more than the stale bread and molding cheese which was all that remained of the provander in his saddle bags. A good, warm meal would sit well, and a comfortable bed in place of the hard earth would be welcome indeed. Not that the young Rohhirim was unused to or unfitted for the rugged outdoor life of a messenger. Still . . . the creature comforts were not to be disdained when they could be had.

Dismounting before the inn, he tethered his horse to an iron ring set in the wall. The door of the tavern was ajar, and light spilled forth, spreading its homely welcome to all weary travellers. Deorlin stepped across the threshold, only to find his way blocked by a young elvish looking woman, who stod as if in reverie. Another was speaking to her in the elvish tongue.

"Excuse me, milady. May I pass?" the rider asked politely, smiling in a friendly way at the two.