Jean's conversation with the tall stranger abruptly ceased. Both leaned back in their chairs. They had been, quite without realizing it, hunched over the table in their effort to keep the conversation from unwelcome ears, whispering oh so quietly with their heads together. The stranger dismissed Jean with a wave of his hand, and Jean stood to leave, pulling up the hood of his cloak. Silently Jean made his way to the door and went out.
The stranger waited for the server to bring his wine. With it in hand, he made his way to the table where Faragorn was sitting. When he passed rather close to a certain table, the candles went out as he passed. Fortunately, the table was unoccuppied. Without waiting for an invitation, he set down across from Faragorn.
"Your name is Faragorn. Yes? How about you start by telling me why you are here in the Shire, Faragorn." He took a sip of his wine and started to unbuckle his heavy steel gauntlets, tucking them behind his swordbelt. Underneath his hands were still covered by black leather gloves.
The man's voice was quiet, his speech proper, but his tone demanded an answer. Faragorn casually peered deep into the man's hood but could make out nothing. The man's face was shadowed too much by his cowl.
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