Ebonymist

Hearing mention of the one called Herugor, Vondros's head whipped around with a speed that would have heretofore seemed impossible. His face was even paler now than it had been, making him look positively ghastly in the flickering light, and his orange-gold eyes had widened to near-frightening proportions in his head. One hand sought out the arm of his companion, tightened on her wrist until Morrigna let out a gasp of pain. "What... agh... has gotten into you?"

"That man," Vondros ground out, "said Herugor." He rose to his feet, unwittingly pulling his friend upright, for he still had her arm in his iron grip. He strained to hear, but the babble of voices, hushed though they might be, only let a filter of a few words through. 'Come," he said, his voice as close to urgency as she had ever heard it. Morrigna, quite frankly, was on the verge of alarm. She'd never seen her companion act this way, much less in public.

Whomever this Herugor was, the name rang a bell with him.

"Von... ngh... loosen your grip," she gasped, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. "You're fair crushing my hand."
Glancing at that which he held, the pallid youth cast her a glance of slight apology and removed his fingers from her skin. He'd held her so tightly that red marks stood out against the neutral tan, and she rubbed it, swearing under her breath. She also let don Thorg tug her after, threading his way through the patrons of the inn. Once at a comfortable distance closer, he pressed his back against a wall, listening intently.

Morrigna took the time, then, to take a good hard look at those that conversed upon the subject of the Mouth of Sauron. She'd heard of him, certainly, though only by his title and never his name. And now she was curious, for though this had not as much impact with her as it did on her fellow, her interest had been piqued.