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‘Imladris.’ Primrose rolled the word about on her tongue. A pretty Elven name she thought, and it sounded familiar. ‘Very glad to meet you, miss,’ she said to the girl, smiling. ‘Perhaps, if you’re not busy later, we can meet and have a little something to eat and watch one of the plays.’
Prim pointed to the Floating Log pavilion by the entryway. ‘I have to go and work a bit . . . serving girl for while . . . to help out.’ She grinned at Imladris and pointed to where the actors were just setting up for a dramatic telling of ‘Frodo of the Nine Fingers’. ‘How about we meet there when I’m done . . . about mid-afternoon.’
Imladris nodded her assent and murmured a few words before Prim ran off, her skirts flying toward the Inn’s tent. Again the cheeky juggler winked at her as she passed.
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. . . for they love peace and quiet and good tilled earth . . . are quick of hearing and sharpeyed, and though they are inclined to be fat and do not hurry unneccesarily, they are nonetheless nimble and deft in their movements . . . FOTR - Prologue
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