Part 2

I'll say that the halls of men are usually a dirty place. Not definantly the fault of the inhabitants, but betimes, there is a stink in the air and an unmistakable stain on the bloodlines of man when their own vanity and visions of grandeur are exorbitant and above their station. To be fair, the actual surroundings I find myself in are very clean. But unfortunately the man I find myself treating with is not. He is unwashed, a grubby beard growing on his face with what looks like the remains of his midday meal. A distinct odour comes from him, but I cannot place it. If I'm honest, I do not want to know where he acquired such a smell.

"This hall has stood for many millennia, built by my distant forefathers. It is my pleasure to live here and reign over their lands as they once did." He gives me what he feels to be a friendly smile, but the brown of the stains on his teeth are almost too much for me. I manage a respectful smile in return. It is good that no one expects more from an Elf, or I would have great trouble expressing myself in talking with this man. I have heard enough about his halls and his lands, the latter of which would fit into Mirkwood one hundred times and more. He is proud, but I detect a hint of fear beneath his visage. He doesn't trust me. I wonder what he is hiding?

Yet again I try to bring his random lecturing back to the subject I came for. "Lord Allad." I intone, bringing his sermon to me to a stop.

"Yes, yes?" He asks quickly, flustered looking.

"I am afraid we do not have a lot of time to waste," I say softly, then reiterate out situation. "We came here because we were told that a mercenary we are hoping to meet has stopped here. We a searching for them because we have been given information that they know details of something we seek. The last we heard is that they were headed here and were to rest here for several weeks. This has allowed us to make haste here in hope of finding them."

He wrings his hands. "It would help if you gave me some more information about whom you seek." He says feebly, his voice trembling as if a man twice his age sits in his seat. "I know of many travellers who have came in recent months to rest here. Many are battle worn, many are skilled in crafts, many healers." He waves his hands, coming to a stop. "What more do you know of this person?"

What more do I know? What more do you want me to tell you? I have already told you all I know of their travelling habits, what they were last seen wearing. The only other thing I could give you is a facial description. Which I do not have, and if I did would I be wasting my time here with you? "They ride light brown horse, which has dark brown flanks." He shakes his head. He lies; there is a horse of that description in the stables.

I continue. "They ride without a saddle and carry packs on the horse. They wear green and brown, usually a brown cloak." He shakes his head again. I have already entertained the thought that the person is an elf, but have come to the conclusion that many skilled riders ride without saddle. They could be a Ranger or someone of that sort. He lies. You would notice someone like this person, unless, of course, they want to go unnoticed. Which is always a possibility. I could be overestimating the wit of these mortals.

My lips involuntarily tighten, but I continue speaking. "They are known to be an extraordinarily skilled bowman who works well with knives and other blades. They are a skilled healer. They carry medicines with them at all times and never deny help to someone who requests it." I had gathered all this information over several weeks. Mainly from men and woman met in villages or on the paths between. Each story can differ in small – or great - detail, but they all carried these same characteristics. The accuracy of their remembrances surprised me, but the person's deeds in themselves were making them sound less like a mercenary and more like a hero. In a twisted sense, depending on what stories you heard. There were darker tales, ones that told of ruthless strength and horrible -yet purposeful - acts.

The man shrugs. "I could not tell you, Prince." He mutters, twisting my title. Knowing that I had to declare it to get this audience. Truthfully I would have rather not have them know me, but I had no choice.

I am about to open my mouth and request an open search for my company and I when I am unwittingly distracted. A woman comes though the door. She holds herself well and possesses grace and beauty beyond any other mortal woman I have seen in these halls so far. Any man would prize this woman, even one of the first-born. I check my thoughts, reminding myself that this could be the Lord's Lady. Her actions hold to this. She goes over to a bowl and jug of water at the other side of the room. I catch a glimpse of her hands as she passes and feel my stomach tighten as I see blood. She washes her hands.

I cast a glance at the man in the seat before me. He has straightened and grips the arms of his seat with each clawed hand. Anger is overtaking him and her seems impatient with this woman. His jaw tightens and he grinds his teeth. I wince at the grating sound, but he takes no notice. "What news do you bring?" He manages to snarl at her. "Your hands bode no good news, so tell me quick before I loose my patience with you!"

Maybe she is no Lady of his, but I know nothing of the etiquette of these halls. She may still be. The woman at the basin finishes washing her hands. There is now towel, so she shakes them dry before turning to Allad. The man visibly shakes now, yet she is unperturbed. "The Lady is dead." She says steadily. The man rises and makes to move toward her. She is unaffected by his stance. "The child lives. It is male," She finishes. She makes to move across the hall to the door, but he grabs at her arm before I can move to prevent him. She grabs his wrist and pries it from her arm, displaying strength unseen in her arms.

"Murderer." He growls at her as he steps back.

"I did no such thing." She snaps. "If you didn't notice, your wife has been bedridden for the past month. She has been gravely ill, I am even surprised she managed to birth the child."

He shakes his head, as if to dispute the fact. "No, she has not been that ill."

The woman's face is a still as stone and is very pale as she stiffens. An unusual characteristic, I think to myself. "You might have noticed if you spent one ounce of your time with you wife, instead of extolling the virtues of your land to those travellers who have no wish to hear." Her eyes are as hard as flint as she visibly enjoys baiting the man. "It might also have made a difference if you spent less times in those harlot's chambers and more in your own." She says in a clear voice, waiting for a reaction.

He raises his hands and lets out an angry roar. "Out! Out! Besmear my name with foul accusations? OUT! I will not have you in these halls ever again!"

I see that there is a suppressed triumph and glee in her eyes. She gives a small bow and says sardonically. "Certainly, my Lord. I will never darken your door again." She whirls around and leaves.

The man roars again. He moves over to a table and flips it over, shattering the apparel placed there and spreading the food over the floor. I wonder should I fear for my own safety. He turns to me, an ugly look on his face. "That is the wonderful mercenary you seek. Leave with her and never come to my door again to request help."

I don't bother bowing or saying a word. I depart, leaving him to his contemplation, which sounds very like the smashing of more plates. I manage to bark my heels at the door as I leave, but am set upon by the others in my company before I can get my bearings. I say nothing; shake my head at their questions and requests for explanation. When they fall silent all I ask is, "Where did she go?"

Knowing what I mean, they gesture down the corridor and subside to their places by the wall again. Willing to wait for news, willing to leave negotiation to me. I set down the dim corridor, wondering where she went.