Outside the Inn's door a tall cloaked figure rode up upon his black steed. The horse brayed loudly as the figure tied it to the rotten wood post.
Then the cloaked shape stalked towards the door of the Inn. The door opened with a slight squeak and he strode in, cloak sweeping the dirt-laden floor of the Inn. He withdrew his hood to reveal a large, grizzled face.
Through the dirt one could make out a scar upon the brow, nigh to the right eye. His hair was untidy and dark. Dark hazelnut eyes set with an everlasting flame scanned the fire lit room. The Elven blood that flowed through his veins was barely distinguishable on the surface. For he looked more of the race of Men. Nonetheless he was Elven and was proud of his lineage. Rumors have it that he is in fact of the line of Feanor of the Elder Days. Thus Hallanąrė was not one to ensnare yourself with and to let be.
As he walked through the room the sword hung at his side barely was above the ground. That sword was Isildagnir, Moon-slayer. Wrought of the same ore as the famous Sting and Glamdring.
Hallanąrė walks towards the innkeeper and demands ale. Upon receiving his drink he sulks over to a corner far from the fire and sits, contemplating the days tidings and journeys.
[ June 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]
[ June 26, 2003: Message edited by: -Hallanįrė- ]
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