[Gwathagor]

The tall elf with the dark hair and the blood-stained cloak stepped into the Golden Perch, quietly closing the door behind him. He paused, lost in thought for a moment, then strode to a corner table and sat down with his back against the wall. There he leaned, staring at the middle of the ceiling and turning the matter over in his mind. Things were swiftly becoming more and more complicated...though clearer? Perhaps. He was afraid to draw conclusions yet.

Why should the wolves go out of their way to oppress a lone pony with no rider? Unless the secret lay in the silver locket...that locket that could not be opened.

It struck a note, somewhere, deep in the past, deep in his memory. Something sad...

The thought began to pass, but he pursued it. Deeper and deeper into his mind he delved, turning over layers of memories laid down over many ages of the earth, catching glimpses, as he sank down through the past, of the sensation that had sparked his curiosity.

What was it? What does this have to do with me?

Snatches of old tunes and songs and ancient poems drifted up to him through the mist and the sea-waves. Memories and images flew to him across the fields of his mind: images of majestic forests and graven halls, of torch-lit banquets and glittering harps, skillfully played, all calling to him, reminding him of something that he had long since forgotten...or buried.

Then the mists cleared and he was no longer at the Inn, or in the village of Stock. He was not even in the Shire.