[Earendil Halfelven]

Turthôl arrived downstairs and entered the common room. The anger must have shown on his face because the smiles on the others' faces quickly faded. Rangar opened his mouth to say something but Turthôl walked right past him and to the bar.

"What can I get ya?" the inn keeper said.

"Ale...a pint of the strongest you have," Turthôl grumbled. The innkeeper filled the mug and handed it to him.

"Hard day?" the man asked.

"Nope, just a hard woman," Turthôl answered.

"Ahhh, I see. Is that her right there?" the innkeeper motioned behind Turthôl. Turthôl turned and looked. Wren was walking down the stairs and went to sit with the others. They started talking and she motioned over to Turthôl. She looked mad herself.

The innkeeper stammered. "Why...that's Miss Chambria. You mean her?"

"Yeah."

"Her family is one of the most well known folks around here. Quite a looker, she is." The innkeeper chuckled.

"I agree with you there but wait until you travel hundreds of miles with her," Turthôl said.

"Are you two...uhhh...you know."

Turthôl interrupted. "No, no. She's just my companion, temporarily." He looked down at his mug. It was empty. "Give me a refill, innkeeper." It was promptly refilled.

Rangar's voice was heard from the table. "Don't drink too much ale. You'll be drunk like back in Bree." Rangar and the others started laughing at the memory Rangar had just stirred up.

Turthôl turned and held his mug in the air.
"Here's to frilly clothes and good ale. Cheers, friend." And with that toast, he drained his mug. The burn that it made in his throat was satisfying.

"Here you go, innkeeper," Turthôl said. He paid the man and headed back to the stairs.
As he walked past the others, he was glad to see a look of confusion on the others faces.

He headed back up to his room. Turthôl shut the door and bolted it.

He noticed that the silly jacket was folded neatly and to it, a note was pinned:

Don’t mind if ye burn it, but ye should have asked first anyhow.

He looked into the fire and was surprised to see cloth ashes in it. Wren must have burned the other clothes. He was about to toss it into the fire also, but something stopped him. Instead, he opened his knapsack and placed it inside with the note still pinned.

Since the door was locked, he wouldn't be disturbed, and he wouldn't open it to nobody.
He took a seat by the fire, stoked it, and took out his fife. Its haunting melodies played throughout the night, even when the others were fast asleep.