[Undómë]

Hob noted the odd fellow as he entered the door. He had his hood pulled up, and his head tipped down, and with the sun behind him in the doorway, it was impossible to see the fellow’s face. As the door closed and the glare of the outside light receded, Hob thought he caught a glimpse of an odd looking growth on the man’s chin.

‘Well, I’ll be,’ he said to himself. ‘That is the strangest beard I’ve ever seen in my life.’

Hob was sitting in the corner of the room, his legs stretched out on the bench, his back up against the wall. The new fellow ambled to another table nearby and sat down, his face still in shadow.

‘Would you like a mug of ale?’ asked Hob, pointing his pipe stem at the pitcher on his table. ‘There’s an extra mug if you’re thirsty.’ ‘Name’s Hob Bridger, from Girdley Island, he said pulling out his pipeweed pouch and offering it to the stranger. ‘Smoke?’