[Formendacil]

Náin was being poor company, and he was somewhat aware of it, as he sat in a less-lit corner of the hall, not far from the fireplace, with one hand around a perpetually half-full tankard of ale, and two eyes darting about the Meadhall. Though never particularly unguarded among Men--or even his own race--those who knew Náin better noticed that he was being unusually taciturn.

The Dwarf was not so much feasting as observing the feast, and while the tension seemed to have been eased since the altercation between Athanar and Lithor, Náin was only somewhat relaxed, as the ale worked on his mood. He was still watching the old Scarburgians, as they interacted with the newcomers, and the soldiers of King Éomer--or, rather, as they mostly didn't interact. With very few exceptions, the Old Scarburgians seemed to be keeping to themselves, speaking mostly with their proven friends and avoiding the possibility of another scene.

Náin noted the exit of Athanar's lady, followed closely by Thorden--and he noted too that it was precipitated by the arrival of Stigend and Garstan's sons. This either meant fun or trouble, and Náin did not think it meant much fun this night, but it was not his place to investigate.

One of the very few ongoing interactions between Old Scarburg and New was happening in the person of Scarburg's new Eorl. Athanar was conversing with Degas and Saeryn, and Náin nodded approvingly to himself. Foolish though the Rohirrim were for it, he knew that the Meadhall would remain divided if the memory of Eodwine could not be reconciled with the presence of Athanar. Saeryn could bridge this divide, and he was pleased to see that she was.

It occurred to the Dwarf, for a fleeting moment, to go over and join the nobles. He was, as the grandson of one of Thorin's companions, and distant kin of the Line of Durin, a Dwarf of considerable lineage, and indeed he was the formal ambassador of both Thorin Stonehelm and Gimli of the Glittering Caves. He was not, however, a bold man, and thus he hung back in his corner, deciding Athanar would meet him soon enough, and that he would not presume on Degas or Saeryn's indulgence. Náin had, in any case, no desire to be identified in Athanar's books with "Old Scarburg"; though he knew them and loved them, he was in Scarburg at King Éomer's pleasure, and had more in common with the elite soldiers sent as Athanar's bodyguard than the vassals of Eodwine.

Besides, what had he in common with Lord Athanar? Náin was a formidable warrior at need, as all the Dwarves were, and had fought well in the Battle of Erebor, though he was young, when the Dale was overrun and Dáin Ironfoot slain before the gates of the Mountain. But he was not a soldier. He was a craftsman, indeed a fine artist. He had more in common with the more advanced labourers of Scarburg, common men like Stigend or Garstan, but even they did not understand fully the art of creation. But then, few Men did.

As he continued to observe the nobles of the Hall, however, he noticed that Athanar drew out a pipe and lit a bowl of pipeweed, and his estimation of the soldier rose. Náin smoked a pipe as well, but this was common among his people. His grandfather, Nori, had said that all fifteen of Thorin's legendary company had smoked pipes. But this was not common among Men. Even in Dale, under the influence of the Dwarves, it was a rare habit, often looked upon in askance as a Dwarven, rather than Mannish, trait, and Náin had never seen one of the Rohirrim smoking.

The Dwarf wondered where Athanar had his pipeweed from. He knew that some was traded down the Greenway from the Shire, inheritors of the trade done with Isengard in Saruman's day, but he had thought it was only sold at Helm's Deep, where the Dwarves provided a ready market, or else in Minas Tirith, where it was said King Elessar paid a handsome price for Hobbit pipeweed. Possibly Athanar did more business with Helm's Deep than Náin had guessed, if he had a supply of pipeweed, and in addition to those about Éomer's court, he might know others of Náin's acquaintance.

Náin metaphorically put this in his pipe and began to smoke it, letting the scent of these cogitations seek into the pores of his mind.