[Lasbelinion]

Lithmîrë set down his empty mug considering if he should call for one more. He’d been rude. He could read it in her eyes. But upon reflection on that fact, he found he simply did not care. Little chit! There was no room for manners, in that place from where he’d come. One grabbed what one could, and if by some small piece of luck, there were those beneath you; then, their service was simply expected. Just as he had had to grovel and obey those who stood over him.

One gets by, as one can . . .

His cough had abated; the pain eased in his arm and face. The fleeting rictus that passed for his smile came with a nod to the man who now sat at the table. ‘A pleasure speaking with you,’ he said in a less gravelly voice, the tone of scorn laid lightly beneath his words. Gathering his cloak about him, he stood. A few quick steps marked his retreat from the increasingly busy room to the wider outdoors.

His heart was pounding. What a fool, he thought, to think he could stand to be in the press of so many people. He found his way to one of the great trees that grew behind the stable. In the welcoming shadow of its branches, he sat down on patch of grass that spread out from the tree’s roots. His back found support against the trunk. He leaned his pack against his outstretched legs, and let his head rest back against the smooth bark. The quiet and the fresh, clean scents borne on the breeze comforted him.

Weary from travel, the Elf was soon dozing.