A pleasant cacaphony of voices, cheers and activity rolled around the Star as the party to celebrate Fordim's arrival in Gondor progressed. Towels and mops had greeted Cami's arrival but then they were put away and the floor was left to a gossipy hum about werewolves and survivors. At first, few noticed the strange little man who entered the front door but as he made his way into the storied inn, voices began to drop and fade away.
He was of stature slight, particularly compared to Gondorians, although taller than either Cami or Fordim. He carried himself proudly, his lithe body speaking of skill and agility rather than mass and torpor. He might be said to favour one leg, yet it could not be said he appeared crippled. A veteran of wars he apparently was, for he also bore a long scar from a thin right eyebrow down across his high cheekbone to his ear, part of which was missing. The eye under the scar was closed, the sunken lid hanging over the socket that now was useless. A perpetual twitch pulled the muscles of his cheekbone, giving his face a strange sensation of rapid motion.
His hair, straight and black and cut evenly, hung down past his ears and was held in place by a red band across his forehead, a style rarely seen in the White City. His nose was broad but long, set on an equally long face with square jaw and small mouth, thin lipped. Yet of all his features it was his sallow, tawny skin which stiffened the attention of the Star's patrons.
The room went silent as he surveyed them first and then sought out the funny hobbit whose face was hidden behind a tankard.
Two, maybe three men from the corner rose towards him. "We don't see your kind much in these parts."
The man ignored them and continued walking towards Fordim. Another man spoke louder.
"He said, Easterling, we don't see your kind here. He meant, we don't want your kind here."
"Halt," spoke a voice with authority. A guard of Gondor, with an empty sleeve tied to his tunic , came forward and took a long look at the man's face. He paled. "Sôông, Sôông the Sullen," he said.
The man looked at him from his one good eye and, awareness flooding into his face, nodded slowly.
"We met on the Pelennor Field."
A tankard crashed in the kitchen, but none were startled by the sound.
They looked over each's wound. "An eye for an arm, Thregor," whispered Sôông.
"You dare to show your face in The White City?''
"I come on errand." A murmur arose.
"And who would bid an enemy enter our walls?"
"One who calls me not enemy." The murmur grew louder.
"Of who among us would you claim that?"
"One not here." Dust hung in the air refusing to twist in the sunlight as Thregor considered his options.
"Name him and state your peace."
Sôông took his time, marking the faces staring at him. His eyes lighted on the person who fit the description he had been given.
"I come on errand from Edoras, from the White Horse. Bethberry is she who will not name me enemy. Bethberry it is who has a message for the hobbit recently come to your city."
Fordim spoke up. "What could Bethberry ask of you concerning me?"
"She bids me say you departed in such haste that you left no instructions for her concerning your banner. She asks what colours you wish and what design for your story of the East."
"Well I'll be," said Fordim, astonished at the Innkeeper's audacity. He had never in his life come face to face with an Easterling and now here she was poking one in his face.
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