[Amanaduial the archer]

Aman regarded the man in the dimlight, her eyes bright even in the darkness of the cellar, trying to formulate the words for the thoughts she needed to express.

"You did not bring me here simply to help with the ale, did you my Lady." Snaveling spoke before Aman could. The Innkeeper remained silent for a moment more, then smiled thinly.

"You see more than you let on, Master Snaveling," she replied quietly.

"The same could be said for you, my Lady," came the quick reply. The Innkeeper gave a small, silent snort of laughter, looking away for a moment as she leant on her hands on the bannister, one side of her face illuminated by the light. When she looked back up at the Man, her gaze was very clear and direct, twin emeralds boring into Snaveling.

"Snaveling...I would like to think that all who pass through the Green Dragon are as honest as my day is long - and that's bloody honest," she added. "But...well, wouldn't that be a little naive. Like yourself I am of the race of men, although of a line less ancient than you, if what I have heard Roa say is correct." She was referring to the rumour that Snaveling was a Dark Numenorian, a rumour that she well knew that he himself had started. The Innkeeper allowed this a moment to settle in, then stood and continued. "And because of this, because of the things I have seen people do...I am not beyond believing, or hoping, that everyone can change. I wonder will my hope be rewarded?"

She let the sentence hang in the air, an abstract notion with a very direct point. Snaveling didn't reply, although he looked like he wanted to, but the fact that he held her gaze told the Innkeeper enough. Aman smiled and gave a small nod. He understood that she knew, and for the second time in one night she had chosen to ignore it in favour of the good side she believed in. Why, Aman couldn't have said, but nonetheless there it was. Standing again, the Innkeeper took the lantern from Snaveling and, standing up on her tiptoes slightly, she hung it on an ornate metal bracket about a foot above her head. Turning back, she motioned to the sturdy oak barrel Snaveling stood by.

"Come along then, there will be parched throats when the music begins," she said, briskly, rolling up her long sleeves.