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Back in the armoury, the Smith frowned in thought at Oremir's words, and carefully laid down his iron hammer. The moment the tool rest unsupported on the slab of stone that was the craftsman's desk, the Master Smith once again, and just as instantaneously, vanished. His voice continued in the same tone as if nothing had happened.
"So Malris had a companion, you say?...I wonder..."
But whatever the great blacksmith had wondered, he did not tell it, switching his tone.
"I am sorry. I am being inhospitable, my friends. I have little in the way of food here, but his Lordship kept a good cellar beyond this armoury, and I know the location of the key. Do find places to sit, and shall I fetch you some hot wine to refresh yourselves? It is so very long," and invisible, merry laughter travelled the air, "since I've had a visit, after all."
The armoury was at least warm, and there was plenty of space on great oaken benches by the fire; which in itself, if looked at closer, was interesting, seeming to stem not from coals, or from wood, but from bands of metal arranged curiously, with siphons pointing upwards. Those who remembered the Smith best would recall his eccentric heat distribution projects. He had apparently, over the long years, perfected one; the basking feeling spread throughout the room, a welcome change.
"As for Malris," the voice cut in after a pause, "I'll get back to him in due..."
At this moment the Smith appeared to the Elves again, his tall figure hunched at the lock of a low threshold, turning a key in its lock to open the door.
"...time. But first...I wonder...have you heard certain...singing...at night time? And have you come to the same conclusion about it..."
The door swings open. The Smith is again heard but not seen.
"...as I have?"
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