"All right then," Eodwine said, cup of mead in hand, "I'll tell you a story. I'll even rhyme it.
There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew-"
"Nay there!" Falco interrupted. "You may not tell that one as it's a hobbit rhyme, and I'm the only one here can do justice to it."
Eodwine shrugged and sighed. "I didn't think I'd get very far with that one with him around." He took a swig of mead, and started again.
"Hear me! We've heard of Dunedain heroes,
Ancient kings and the glory they cut
For themselves, swinging mighty swords!
How Skelda made slaves of soldiers from every
Land, crowds of captives he'd beaten
Into terror; he'd traveled to Dunland alone
An abandoned child-"
"Hold! Hold!" cried Harreld. "We can't have you telling that one, or we'll be here all night and into the morning!"
Eodwine sighed again. "Then what tale shall I tell?"
"Tell the one," Gudryn needled, "about the marchwarden of Dunland."
Eodwine leaned over and said out of the side of his mouth, "But that tale, my daughter, has yet to be written in the sands of time; only then can it be told."
"Then tell what there is to tell so far," she insisted.
"Maybe another time, my sweet." He winked at her, and she smiled wistfully back, but the smile was quickly gone.
"I know!" Eodwine said. "I can tell you one of the tales of Gob and Twiddle, two makers of much trouble hereabouts."
"Gob and Twiddle?" Garreth frowned, itching his scalp, "Can't say I've ever heard of those tales."
"No surprise," Falco said, "he's making it up on the spot."
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