Fungrim had sat at his table, immobile and alone for two square hours now. Only occasionally did he stir to take a gulp from his flagon or a breath from his pipe. He sat there, immobile and ignored like an aged statue. Only the occasional furtive glance from a local disspeled the feeling of invisibility.
He turned his head to search for the barmaid, and his gaze locked with two brown eyes regarding him with a mild curiosity. At his glance, however, the eyes owner turned hurriedly back to his flagon. His table got quieter by a notch almost instantly.
He cursed his ill luck. There had been a chance for company, but one look from him had ruined everything. His stern looks and the large axe leaning to the table propably disscouraged most of the locals.
He got up and stomped moodily to the bar-table, passing a curious looking elf in red talking to a man whom Fungrim judged was from Rohan by his accent and armour and clothes. If only he didnt feel so alien making contact with strangers. The years spent in the wilds had burned out most of his sociable skills.
He stomped to the bar and proped his axe against the counter. "An ale, please." He said tossing a few coins on the bar.
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Herein, it is said, the power of Ulmo was shown. For he gathered tidings of all that passed in Beleriand, and every stream that flowed from Middle-earth to the Great Sea was to him a messenger, both to and fro
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