[Eorl of Rohan]

Ferethor entered quietly, and limped toward the most inconspicuous table by the far wall. He was not the type of person that warranted anything more than a cursory glance as he passed by. The days being what they were, evil and dangerous, surely the sight of travellers armed to the teeth must be a common occurrence in this inn. And he was hardly of the build that inspired fear in others. Slender and willowy, almost to the point of boyhood, he looked more like a serious lad in his late teens than an experienced swordsman and mercenary who has seen close on thirty winters.

He was clad in a chain-mail of tarnished silver, black woollen breeches, and mudstained leather boots that bespoke of a long and weary journey; his cloak boasted bloodstains as well as mud. His own blood, if his occasional winces and heavy limp could be trusted. Nevertheless it seemed as if he was not too keen on drawing notice to himself. That faithless cur, to betray him like this...

"Miss?" He called to the elven woman nearby, perhaps mistaking her for the serving staff. "Do you have any of those sickeningly sweet dwarven ale available, and if so, could you bring me a tankard? And some fresh bandages to dress my wounds, if you have any? It's nothing serious, I..."

He began coughing blood.