[Nilpaurion Felagund]

A strange noise approached the Green Dragon Inn. No, it was not the clippety-clop of the brown pony’s hooves, nor the tinkling of small bells attached to its bridle. Rather it was the strange passenger the pony was bearing. An old man, singing a strange song, and laughing all the while.

Why, that’s Aldwine. Or at least that’s what his latest name was.

What does he do? Why, he collects tales, of course. And what a collection this man has. He had travelled all around, listening to stories of other cultures. From the Forochel in the North to Harad in the South, this guy has probably gone everywhere.

Except the Shire. But that's about to change.

Someone approached him, probably a stable hand. Aldwine went down and said to the man,

"Oh, don't bother taking my horse to the stables! Iaroch won't go for hay, anyway. He only feeds on living grass."

He walked on to the inn. Stopping at the threshold, he breathed deep(to smell the air; a habit before entering a place), and walked on, saying, "Ah, a good this one is! Reminds me of the inn the Beornings have!"

As he seated himself on one of the vacant tables, he pulled a pen and notebook out of his sack. He then went around the room, as was his wont, listening to snatches of story one might be kind enough to tell.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:48 PM January 29, 2004: Message edited by: Nilpaurion Felagund ]