[Will Witfoot]

Fungrim shifted through the ash and depriss that used to be the inn, searching for anything that might yet be of use. So far he had found a box of silverware that had propably been stored away in some corner cupboard and thus escaped destruction, some pots and pans in various states of utility and even a variety of wine bottles, most empty but some still holding inside the sweet re liquid.
He glanced over at the stables where folk was just starting to get up. Most of the hobbits and a few of the humans slept pretty late, by his standards. Some lonely souls on the other hand appeared to be early birds like him. Their number included most of the elves, and the innkeeper herself.

He himself had been awake for hours allready. Since he slept lightly like a beast of the forest he thought he might help the wee ones somewhat by seeing what could be salvaged from the remains of the inn. He had done so every morning, before breakfast and the begining of the more demanding work.
He had helped somewhat with the stonework, for even though his skills had greatly degenerated from their former level he was still a dwarf, and each and every dwarf had a natural gift for that sort of thing.
He picked up the treasures he had managed to find and made for the fire burning near the stables. A quick breakfast would be in order before work was begun.

He had mostly avoided the other dwarf, Regin. The shame of his banishing still burned him after all these years, and in all that time he had found few dwarfs indeed with whom he could speak about it.

He pushed these gloomy thoughts from his mind and hoisted the box of silverware onto his shoulder. They could wait, until he got some food under his belt.