[Anguirel]

I met a Warg at the Summer Exhibition of the Royal Academy of Arts in London.

He was larger than a horse, prodigiously hairy, and iron-black. I knew I'd found one of the legendary beasties. An outgoing sort, he introduced himself first. I put my (somewhat rusty) Old Wargish skills to use.

"Grrrrrollorcrrr," he remarked. "Hargrrrrrakgrrrr grrr snarrrrrgrrlll."

"I know," I answered. "What do these young artists think they're doing nowadays."

He shook his gory locks wisely. "Grrgshhhgrrrrrk. Gr-hshssss r Borrrrroundoun."

I gasped, realising that my companion was none other than the famed Warg Chieftain Boroundoun the Urbane, of Albany, the most revered Warg in all Sourthern Anglia, and of good strong Caledonian descent. He was also rather a well-known art critic, and contributed a regular column to a magazine on twelth-century Wargish ceramics.

Knowing that this was an opportunity but rarely to be missed, I introduced myself in turn.

"Anguirel, sword of Maeglin Lomion Eolion, at your service."

"Grrrrk yurrrrrrrgrrk rrrrrtgarthrrgh," quoth he (the traditional reply "at yours and your bones').

We had a thoroughly interesting chat and he mentioned the name of a family of rather refined Wargs living in Florence, one of whom had married his nephew, when I told him I was heading there.

The upshot is that I will endeavour to bring back many a gem of Italian Wargish lore when I return (if I return) in four weeks' time.