[Orual]

Eruisto glanced at Taurnil and Éothed, and raised his eyebrows. "Nice intercept," he commented, turning back to Melisil. He couldn't tell whether or not she was offended, but he decided not to make a big deal out of it. Best let sleeping dogs lie.

There was a low hum of conversation that hung over the common room like a fog, but there was something warm and home-like about it. Eruisto was used to cold silences and colder welcomes, but even the chilly morning had seemed warmer than many summer days he'd spent in other towns. He ran a hand along the worn wooden table, and felt in it the caresses of countless other hands. Everything in this Inn seemed old and loved to him, like heirlooms or hand-me-downs. Then again, maybe it was just the air of the Shire. This place seemed like it was full of history.

Full of history. He looked at Melisil. Her twilight eyes, full of the wisdom and quiet energy of her people, were trained on him, waiting for him to say something. "Melisil," he began, "I'd like to ask you something. I hope you don't find it rude." He paused a moment. "M'lady, I've never actually met an elf before. I love stories, and...I, well, I was wondering if you would mind telling me where you were from. I'm from Gondor, and though I passed in the general vicinity of Lothlorién and Rivendell, I couldn't see them. Could you tell me about your land?" Afraid he had said too much, he stopped and sat back in his chair.