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Angawen rounded the corner of the tavern, and halted in her tracks. Speech with the locals here would not be difficult - to preserve their Gondorian mannerisms, the people spoke Westron rather than the official English. But while she could theoretically converse with any of them, she did not much desire conversation with a lot of the crowd. Many of them looked like what would be simpleton peasants in Gondor. She saw only one table in this section of the inn where a presentable-looking man, clothed in respectable Gondorian clothes, though pink, sat by himself.
She walked towards the table, and slid in opposite him, smiling all the time. "Hello," she said, deciding to adopt Sindarin rather than Westron simply to exclude the rest of the inn from the conversation.
"Hail, Lady," said the man, looking up into her eyes. She noticed suddenly that he appeared to be one of the Haradrim. This should not have been shocking; one sporadically saw the shawled Haradwaith wandering the streets of Gondor, but she did not remember seeing any in Mordor.
"You much resemble the noblemen of Gondor in costume," she said to him, conscious of her limited time. "Tell me what brings you to this accursed land."
"Ah, 'tis a great muddle, I assure you, Lady. But allow me to introduce myself. I am Tugwubs."
Angawen was sure she had misheard. Not even the Haradrim had such odd names. "Sorry?" she inquired.
"Tugwubs."
"How does one spell that?"
"Tee, jee, dubbleyoo, bee, ess. Tugwubs, my Lady."
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