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A tall man, an older man, walked into the Green Dragon Inn, his shoulders stooped with tiredness. His face was weatherworn and hard, and could have been that of an aged farmer, were it not for the careful and wary way in which he moved and held himself, and for the saddened look in his eyes. He was dressed rather nondescriptly, if somewhat shabbily, having the look of one who had long since missed the cares and comforts of a home. A long, unadorned sword hung from his hip. He moved as if he knew well how to use it.
A slight limp impeded his walk as he made his way towards an open table along the wall, a limp just slight enough to be notable, and not quite enough to trouble him. Reaching the table, he eased himself into a sitting position, a long but quiet sigh slipping out. He had been on the road for a long time.
"Can I get you anything?" asked the Hobbit barmaid, catching sight of a new customer soon after he had seated himself.
"Something that will ease a man's mind, but not delude into foolishness," said the customer. The Hobbit raised an eyebrow.
"Ale, whatever the popular local brew is," he clarified. It was too late for riddles.
The barmaid smiled, and soon returned with a mug of frothy ale. The stranger handed her a copper in payment. A strange face was imprinted on it.
"Who is he?" asked the Hobbit.
"Araphant of Arthedain," replied the stranger. "He that was second-to-last King of this realm before the Fall of the North. It is an old enough coin, to be sure, but still the same currency as those pennies that bear the profile of Paladin son of Adalgrim."
The Hobbit maid might have responded, but a local customer was waving at her, and she hurried away. The stranger spared himself a slight smile as he raised his mug to his lips. None of the coins in his purse bore a more recent face than Araphant of Arthedain.
Of course there was a story behind that. But there were none present to ask Estahir son of Estagond what it was. And that troubled Estahir not in the least. He was tired and desired rest.
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