Ebonymist

The gray-cloaked man, having listened expressionlessly to the elder hobbit’s tirade, never even flinched during the yelling spate nor the subsequent apology. The only sign that he had even heard what the halfling had to say was an odd glow in the depths of his amber-orange eyes, a subtle flickering of some dangerous inner fire.

That expression, coupled with a single step forward, made him seem far less congenial than he had a moment ago; indeed, one might wonder whether or not he wouldn’t simply cut the poor hobbit down on the spot- the movement he had just enacted had dislodged a corner of his cloak, revealing the hilt of a blade nearly as long as your average Shire-dweller was tall. At least, it seemed that way judging from the hilt, seeing as its sheath was still concealed.

He might have advanced even further, save that the steel-haired lady beside him siezed his arm in an effort to restrain him, casting a look of rebuke toward his face. It was a glance that said, in no uncertain terms, that there would be dire ramifications if her looming companion took one more step toward poor Toby.

“Vondros,” she hissed at him, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Don’t you dare.”

Reluctantly, he released his grip upon the sword, allowing his cloak to fall back over the weapon.

One crisis averted, the woman turned back to Snaveling and the elder Hornblower. She bowed slightly, her tone turning from acerbic to kindly in the time it took to draw breath. “Forgive my confederate. As you may have noticed, he is rather lacking in” -she shot another, rather wry, look at him- “social graces. I ask you not to blame him. He has not had contact with many in a vein not associated with warfare in...” She paused, trying to find the proper term, “a very long time.” Again the slight bow, just enough to indicate polite greetings. “If our presence truly is a bother to you, then we will take our leave once we have shown his mount proper housing.” She returned her grip to the aforesaid mount’s reins; the Appaloosa stomped once but otherwise made no move to protest. “I’m Morrigna,” she added mildly. “Morrigna Falconhand. The gentleman that threatened you is-”

”Vondros don Thorg,” the youth replied -if youth he was, for in truth, though his face was smooth and unlined, something in his eyes suggested differently-, his tone lacking any hint of inflection other than boredom. A slight mocking flavor was added to his next statement as he glanced sidelong at the two before him. “At your service.”

With this, he folded his arms in front of his chest, eyeing his feminine compatriot with curiosity, waiting to see what she would do next. The movement added a note of intrigue to the mix, for his right index finger bore upon it a faint blemish. A scar, it looked like; a perfect band such as a ring or similar might make, encircling the digit. But where would he get such a mark?
And what was it that should rest upon the scarred area but did not?
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