[littlemanpoet]

"My lords," Ædegard said, taking Liornung's cue, "the lass Bellyn is not used to arrows aimed at her while she greets you. Pray, forgive her, and my lapse for not speaking sooner. I am Ædegard of Edoras, this is Liornung also of Edoras, the lady Bellyn is from Rohan's friend Gondor. This is Argeleafa of Rohan, and Erundil, a ranger. We were with Amroth, who is also called Mellon, until early this morning. He is ill and we need to find him to give him what aid we may. If you have seen him, we beseech you to show us the way to him, the sooner we may aid him."

The arrow lowered. "The one you speak of has not been seen in these woods in a thousand years. How do you know of him?"

Ædegard swallowed hard. The arrows were pointed at him now. "As I said, sirs, he is ill. Ill of mind, maybe. He is a blacksmith of Gondor, yet thinks himself Amroth, and behaves as Amroth. We fear for his safety."

"Well you might, Ædegard of Rohan. Stay where you are and we shall come down to you. We have more questions for you, but they may be asked in more friendly fashion."

Ædegard wondered where these words, issuing from his mouth, came from. He was a lowly wheelwright, unlearned in letters, knowing only the basest runes. Yet when the words were needed, they came. Ædegard decided that he had much to think about, when he got the chance.