[piosenniel]

She had come up the Great West road from Gondor to Isengard, passing through the green waves of tall grass which once Men called Calenardhon, and was now known as Rohan. Of all the areas in these inner lands of Middle-earth, this was the one she loved the best, for it most reminded her of her belovéd sea.

Long a friend of the Eorlingas, she had sought out her old companion, Garulf, as she passd through the Riddermark, and he had lent her a horse to bear her on her way to Eriador. Rochfalmar, she was called, for her coat shimmered like a cresting wave shot with the sun’s light while the deep greys of the sea rolled beneath it. And now she cleaved the rolling, long green grasses like a great ship passing through the waves.

To Isengard and up the South road to Tharbad, now fallen since that fell winter when came the White Wolves of the Forodwaith to harry the Shire. Across the River Gwathló, and up the Greenway to Bree, and a pleasant night spent at the Prancing Pony. For it was there she heard of the Wargs and Wolves who now harried the sheep in Bree-land, and she dared not travel The Great East road at night, alone.

A fair day’s ride then to Frogmorton and then on down the road to Bywater. It was here that she was to meet an old friend. There was information to be exchanged, and plans to be made before the crew of The Lonely Star could sail south on their next journey. Somewhere, among the long neglected mathoms of a certain hobbit family, lay a key to their southern riddle.

Dismounting from ‘Falmar, she led her to the stable area and handed the reins to the boy there, instructing him to wipe her down thoroughly and then give her feed and water. He nodded his head at the Elf, and she flipped him a silver penny. He watched, grinning, as it turned end over shiny end in the air and landed in his palm.

Pio strode to the door of the Inn. It was locked, and she banged the pommel of her knife against its thickness. A serving wench opened it, and looked her over saucily, smiling then as Pio winked at her and slipped her a penny. The Elf stepped through the door, stopping just as she entered to let her eyes adjust to the dim interior. She was dressed in a dark grey tunic, unlaced at the throat, and a pair of black leggings tucked into high boots of dark, supple leather. A brown leather baldric held four knives on its crosspiece – two short for throwing and two longer for close in fighting, and on her left hip it held her blade in a plain, brown leather scabbard. Two throwing knives were hidden in her boot tops, one nestled against each leg. A sheathed dagger was secured hilt down to each forearm and hidden beneath the sleeves of her tunic. Over it all she wore a travel stained cloak secured with a tarnished silver clasp, the six-pointed star of Eärendil, a clear, faceted stone at its center. The cloak’s hood was thrown back, revealing shoulder length hair as black as night, framing a fair face set with keen grey eyes, which even now searched the room.

The face she sought was not here. Thirsty, she approached the bar, and ordered a pint of stout. Making her way to an empty booth to the side of the common room, she sat down her back to the wall, and watched the ebb and flow of the patrons.