"Can I get you anything else?"

Toron looked up into the barmaid's eyes, bright blue and curious as she stood over their table with a jug of ale. "Thanks, but I believe we're done here," he answered, speaking in her northern dialect.

The woman smiled coyly, tossing a few thick locks of blonde hair out of her freckled face. "Are you sure? Usually our ale has every man uncloaked and singing their guts out after a tankard." She glanced down at the four empty metal cups on the table. "Seems you two need a little more!"

The elf man glanced at his companion, who gave a slight shake of his head. A wise decision. The drink was not hideous, but not worth another round. These northern brewers were more intent on making strong drink than fine-tasting drink—not that the brown liquid was enough to even slightly affect them.

"Well, what'll it be then?" The barmaid shoes were heavy on the plank floor, and she set the ale jug on the table with a metal thunk. "Or maybe your minds are already addled then? I've heard you southern types out of Gondor can't hold your liquor. Maybe there's something else you'd like to hold. I work nights as well as days."

The woman's broad fingers played with the laces of her bodice, but before she go any further, another, sharper voice intervened, "No. You can leave now." The words were harsh, the language Westron, and even from within the depths of his black cloak, Amortio Durcu radiated the stern authority of his age and rank. He dropped a handful of coins on the table. "For the drinks."

The barmaid's nose wrinkled, her smile soured, and she grabbed at the metal pieces. "Suit yourself then."

His companion rose swiftly and stalked to the doorway. Toron moved to follow, then turned around and pressed a tiny pouch with a few more coins in the barmaid's hand. She was rude, but that was only to be expected from her station. "Your ale was fine," he said quietly. "Good day."

By the time he caught up with Amortio, his friend stood within the shadows of a nearby blacksmith shop. A wise decision, as the streets were thick with people. It was the last great market day in Okrend, and though on the outskirts of Rhovanion, the village was large enough to close the main thoroughfares to wagons and carts, and line them with peddlers hawking wares from all corners of Middle Earth.

"You didn't care for the ale?" Toron said, smirking. His friend grimaced. "Fit for children. And the woman fit for none."

The Sindarin elf laughed. "Well, then don't marry her. I am certain Arda will survive without another tale of misspent love between the Eldar and Men."

Amortio's severe, handsome features softened to wry humor. "Though I could teach her many better ways of brewing drink."

Toron shrugged. "I thought it fair enough for mortals. A form of flavored water."

The Noldor shook his head, but smiled, the matter clearly over. "Come, let us see this famous leather worker and horseman. I have need of a new saddle, if his quality is good and prices reasonable for a human's work."

They reentered the crowds of people mingling between the stands.

"It is too much," Allinde stated flatly in dwarvish.

The dwarf held up the silver cloak-chain again, letting the bright sunlight glitter along its coiled edges.

"One of the finest pieces I have ever made," he answered in a gravelly voice. "The amount I ask is already lowered because of your friendship with my people."

The scout shook her head slightly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. The chain had been made by the dwarf, it was true; crafted a hundred years ago when he was just learning the skill, no doubt. Allinde recognized the fine scratches marring the otherwise smooth surface. It was one of the reasons she had selected the piece, desiring to replace her broken chain without great expense. Unfortunately, the dwarf, Pim, had other ideas—including some odd ones around friendship!

"The price is still too much," she repeated, gesturing to the etches on the chain. "With these defects, I will not pay the amount you ask."

"Defects?" Pim bristled behind his beard. "I'll have you know those are entirely intentional; strong runes, in fact, to ward off evil."

Allinde raised her eyebrows in disbelief, and sighed inwardly. With one incautious phrase, the haggling had just been extended to an indefinite period.

As Pim began to ramble about the chain's long history of protecting its wearers against evil, she crossed her arms and let her eyes wander. The market was unusually crowded today, even considering it was the last of the season. It was all the better to observe, and to learn. Perhaps she might even make a new contact.

Her sharp gaze lighted upon a very tall man standing in front of a tackle stall. His back to her, and cloaked in black, but she could tell from his build that he was no farmer or craftsman. Nor is he mortal. Even from this distance, his bearing gave him away. Allinde didn't expect to see another elf here. It was worth further study.

She turned back Pim. "That price is still not acceptable." The elf maiden raised a hand before the dwarf could protest. "I am leaving now. I will try to find better stock elsewhere. Good day."

Allinde winced as she walked away from the stand. Her dwarvish was still limited, and Pim was of a different clan than she was used to, with an unfamiliar dialect. At least I knew enough to maintain a conversation. The fault was Leohiston's. Though he had stayed a few days in Greenwood, and she had occasioned to meet him again over the past fifty years, their language sessions always turned to other matters of discussion. Always light, never too personal, and yet…

And yet I wish to see him again. Indeed, she held faint hope that the cloaked elf was Leohiston, though in truth it was taller and broader of shoulder. It was no matter; she would learn his identity soon enough.

"Miss? Miss!" The elf maiden paused as she felt a hand tugging at the edge of her rough brown cloak. She pivoted and faced the assailant. A small boy, no more than seven years old, blinked up at her. A homespun tunic hung from his skinny chest, and his blue eyes were wide with worry.

A troublemaker, or a thief, if Allinde guessed rightly. She glanced at him sternly from within her hood.

"Yes, child?"

"It's my sister," he said, pointing a finger off into the distance. "We were in town together, just looking around and get a bit of food but when we went to pay the baker for a few buns, he looked at us real funny and then spat at the ground. Then he grabbed Hina's money, but wouldn't give us anything! And then he started shouting at us, like we were thieves or something! Now there's a bunch of men around her, and," he took a hiccuping breath, "she can't get away!"

Hina. The name did sound familiar. Allinde stared at the boy more closely, trying to discern any familiar trait. "Who are you?" No, that wouldn't help. Human children grew too quickly to memorize their changing faces. She quickly added, "who are your parents?"

The scruffy boy ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. "Ma and Da—I mean, Warrin and Brigetta. They're the town herbalists. But we don't live in town no more. I never met you, but Da said you were bound to be around, that you were coming by later tonight, so I just kept trying people. You're the first one to listen, so you gotta be Miss Cauniel, and we help you sometimes and you help us sometimes." He paused to take another breath. "And we need help now! Da had a problem with the baker, something about his son didn't heal right, but I think the baker isn't doing right, and I told Hina our Da said to stay away from that stand, but she likes the fresh currant rolls, and wouldn't listen!"

Warrin and Brigetta. The images of a plain-clothed man and wife flashed in her eyes, the man hunched over, as if he never learned to stand up properly, and his wife's dark blonde hair covered with a white kerchief. Their family was among her first contacts, generations ago. But she hadn't seen them in years, just after Brigetta had just given birth to a son. The little boy who stood before her now, rocking anxiously from one foot to the other.

"Miss Cauniel? You coming?"

The elf maiden sighed, then nodded. Her curiosity could wait. The boy's emotions were genuine, and it wouldn't be the first time the herbalists had been harassed. These northern villages were ever wary of their healers. She took his grubby hand in hers, more to keep track of him in the crowd than anything else. As she made contact with his skin, a brief image flashed in her mind. Brigetta, holding a small babe in her arms, a proud grin on her face and a name on her lips. "Lead the way...Forreg, isn't it? You have certainly changed."

Helpful Context Notes:

Rhovanion is that kind of area between the Lonely Mountain in the east and the Misty Mountains. There is no Rohan at this point, so sort of consider the people of Rhovanion as their northern forebears.

Arda: name of the entire planet, like "Earth"