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Jims eyebrows rose into his hairline at the elf’s statement and then question. Great wolves from the cold north! And this fellow had already killed several? Jims had little knowledge of wolves of any kind. The tales he had heard at the Rose of the Fell Winter of 2911 seemed to his ears stories meant to scare little children. That such creatures might yet again be prowling this far south was practically unbelievable. That such creatures might have something to do with his missing horse was fantastical! And the thought that Jims might know anything about how to wield a sword, well, that was the most laughable part of the whole situation.
Extending his own hand and not even registering the fact that he was shaking hands with an elf, Jims replied, “Sword? No. I’m no fighter. Used to do a bit of wrestling at the market day fairs now and again.” Jims realized how idiotic that must have sounded to the elf, who was no doubt an experienced warrior, if the rumors of their great age could be credited. “Neither am I a tracker or hunter,” Jims continued, “and it may well be that this fur and the paw print I saw in the stable just now were from earlier. Perhaps we should take another look and see what other signs there may or may not be.”
Jims hoped the elf’s inquiry as to his swordsmanship was an indication of the fellow’s intent to once more take up this ongoing battle with the wolves. If he could get Gwathagor to take the lead, Jims felt he might then be able to adopt a much more minor role in the search for the missing horse. Glancing over to the fireplace, where he had rested his staff against the wall next to his now dry cloak, Jims gulped nervously. Remembering his manners at the last moment, he said, “And I’m Jims, by the way. Jims Barleycorn, of Bree. My family runs the Rose and Thistle there.”
Feeling he was beginning to gabble, Jims shut his mouth with an almost audible snap, and awaited Gwathagor’s reaction.
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