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Fungrim lolled at the smal table next to the hearth. With his clean-scrubbed features, washed clothes and commed hair and freshly plaited beard he made a very different impression from the down-at-heel wanderer who had first shown up at the inn all those weeks ago.
He tilted back his head, letting the foamy ale run down his throat before turning to the fireplace. He surveyed his, and Indy's, handiwork with a quiet joy, taking in all the carvings and little pictures he had made as an extra gift to the inn. Truly it was something to be proud of.
He took a bite of the kidney pie one of the patrons had made, and glanced around trying to locate the child. She had gone with one of the hobbit women, though not by her own consent. Judging by the noice she had made anyone would think that she had been dragged away for execution, rather than for a bath and a change of clothes.
He chuckled slightly at the image of the girl trashing as the little ladies had guided her upstairs. She was a tomboy to the core, treating washing and order like they were some deadly diseases.
Well, it could'nt be helped. It was the party, after all, and it would not do to flitter around in dirty clothes.
He just hoped that she did'nt drown the hobbit's. It would be quite a blow for the innkeeper.
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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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