[Arry]

Alwin sat down in the chair opposite Sarin, thanking him for the ale. He pulled out his own clay pipe and tamped in a goodly pinch of pipe weed. Jack had hopped down from the chair he’d perched on and ran to get a lit straw for his grandfather to light his pipe.

‘We’re bound for Bree, to stay at the Prancing Pony for a bit. I made some good friends there when last I passed through. Then it’s on east to Rivendell, we are hoping. The Elves for the most part have gone from The Last Homely House, there, but there are one or two or so left, I think. And the great library still stands, or so I have heard, and there are still some scrolls and books to poke through.

‘Grandfather is looking for music,’ piped up Jack, wanting to join in the conversation. ‘He plays the harp . . . and sings, too.’

They were in the midst of a pleasant conversation, when the door to the Inn opened twice, and two strangers entered, one following on the heels of the other. The first a rugged looking man. Dark haired, his face in shadows. Green tunic over darker breeches, well worn boots, a ragged cloak. A blade hung at his belt, and he bore a bow and quiver. He seemed at ease in the Inn, despite his worn appearance. Cloak keeping the prying eyes of the others from cataloguing his features too closely, the man took a seat at the bar.

The second man, too, brought with him a certain air of mystery. His cloak was silver, and it shimmered in the lights of the lamps as he walked toward one of the Inn tables and sat down. His hair, too, was of a silvery nature, and his eyes were a captivating blue. They saw him speak for a brief moment with one of the servers, but could not catch his name clearly.

Buttercup came by with a pitcher of fresh ale and filled Sarin’s and Alwin’s mugs. For Jack, she had brought a cup of chilled cider. ‘Lot of Big Folk in the Inn tonight,’ she observed looking also at the latest arrivals. She smiled prettily at Alwin, then, and told him it would be only a little while until she had time to get their room in order.

‘No hurry,’ he assured her, pointing his pipe toward the Sarin and then tapping the bowl of it lightly against his foaming mug. I’ve an interesting companion to talk to, a pipeful of weed, and the finest ale in the Westfarthing.’ Not to mention,’ he said winking at her, ‘the pretty lasses who work at the Inn and the most interesting people who enter it.’