The young man had entered some time before, unnoticed by all save the bright eyes of the innkeeper who had started forward to greet him in the customary manner, but was held back by the gentle upraising of one hand. He stood fair and tall, clothed in gray after the manner of the Elves in Lothlorien, and indeed there was an elfish air about him, as one who had spent long in the company of the Firstborn.
He moved forward with a small limp, a reminder of a battle recently fought. Girt at his side was a long sword, and a spear, used as a walking stick, helped him as he found a seat.
"I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold…"
He sang softly to himself as he waited and watched.
Not long had passed when an Elf messenger burst through the doors. As he spoke, the young man paled and leaned forward in his chair, intent upon the speech. Upon completion of his message, the Man sat back as one who hears, but cannot believe. His face was troubled as he stood.
"Know ye that I am Garen, son of Galthun, and of the house of Lorien, the Elf-friends. Long have my fathers watched and guarded the northern borders of the Golden Wood, as was our agreement with the lord Celeborn many lifetimes of Men ago. That now bandits and rogues should wander those fair lands unchecked is a mark against the honor of my household, that they attack citizens of the Wood is an offence that I cannot let sit idle. I would pledge you my spear in this task, and aid in any way that I can."
He returned to his seat, but all joy had left his expression.
[ December 26, 2002: Message edited by: Garen LiLorian ]
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This is my quest, to follow that star; no matter how hopeless, no matter how far. To fight for the right, without question or pause. To be willing to march into Hell for a Heavenly cause! -Man of La Mancha
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