[piosenniel]

Gondor – night of the King’s Party; present time

Ignoring the stares that greeted her entrance into the Common Room of the Seventh Star, Pio strode to the bar where Mírënin stood waiting for Morien to fill her orders of ale and spiced wine. Murmurings of approval rose and fell behind her. Though one old voice, Halfred, a regular at the Inn, spoke up more loudly declaring that it was just Mistress Piosenniel all gussied up for the King’s party. ‘Owns that merchant ship, The Lonely Star. Sails on her too, with her husband, Captain Mithadan. Got three lively little ones she brings in for a visit now and then.’ A tablemate of the old fellow, a little bleary eyed from his second pint, looked the Elf up and down as she passed by. ‘Looks like one of them El . . . dar,’ he said, drawing the word out in a slurred manner. His eyes were bedazzled by the numerous tiny gems the seamstress and her assistants had managed to sew onto Elf’s party dress. ‘Reminds me of stories of that witchy Elf that lived up north in that golden wood. All sort of shiny and all.’

Halfred kicked his companion soundly in the shins. ‘Best shut your trap on that particular one,’ he warned his companion. ‘The Queen’s own grandma she was . . . or is.’ His voice trailed off, unsure of how to refer to someone who’d sailed West.

Mírënin giggled at the comments on the Elf. Pio sighed, drawing her cloak about her, and raised her eyebrows at the young woman. ‘Well, you do look rather . . . glittery . . . tonight,’ said Morien in the girl’s defense. He leaned over the bar to get a look at Pio’s feet. ‘Shoes, even! And not your old boots.’ He leaned conspiratorially toward Mírënin. ‘Though I’ll bet a free round on the house that the Elf’s got a knife strapped to each leg.’

‘Well then, you will pay up, Morien!’ Pio pulled her dress above her knees and twirled about. ‘A round of drinks for all on the house!’ She laughed as the chorus of patrons raised their mugs to her with an approving shout.

Pio let her dress drop back to the floor and bending down to Mírënin, asked if she would run upstairs and fetch Baran. As the girl scuttled off to do so, Morien spoke low to the Elf. ‘You’re taking him to the King’s party?’ ‘And what is wrong with that?’ rejoined Pio. ‘His race is not often, indeed if ever, seen in Gondor. I would think the King happy to meet a representative of his subjects from the Vales of the Anduin.’ ‘All I’m thinking,’ said Morien, ‘ is that there will be plenty of eyebrows raised at his presence.’ Pio laughed, ‘Yes, well . . . it should make the party more interesting, eh?!’

She turned, scanning the stairs for Baran’s appearance. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ she chuckled, as Morien moved to fill orders for drinks. ‘You should have guessed my forearms . . .’