[Snowdog]

Celebrations of victory filled the aire of Edoras, and Hanasían rode slowly through the crowd. No smile graced his face except when he saw someone looking at him with smiles of celebration. But the four years since the war had not been kind to him. A veteran of the battles of the Fords of Isen, Helms Deep, and then, being one of the Dúnedain, he rode with his northern brethren and Chieftain through the Paths of the Dead and beyond. He fought also in the battle with the Corsairs, and the Pelennor and suffered the loss of his brother Hayna there. Hanasían himself was wounded in the Battle of the Morannon, but recovered. There was no celebration in him for the victory, but for the vanquishing of the darkness of Mordor. But the memories of friends and brethren lost he was reminded of.

Hanasían dismounted and looked about. He saw a young stable girl and he passed the reins of Greyshadow to her with a silver King’s coin. It wasn’t Rohirric, but was accepted in the Realm of his mother’s kin. He looked about some and smiled and waved to some boys who shouted praises to the veterans of the war, and he soon turned to the doors under a sign of the White Horse Inn.

The crowds were in such gaiety and Hanasían deduced from the nearby banter that a bardic competition had concluded and the joy of having the King’s title was pouring out in cheer. He heard mention of Éowyn, the white lady of Rohan and Princess of Ithilien, and one being in her service. It had been four years since he had seen her, and Lord Faramir as well. Memories of their love for one another when he was in the Houses of Healing brought refreshing memories to the tortured veteran. Hanasían smiled and clapped his hands as he pushed his way through the throng to the doors and entered the Inn.

Many were out in the streets celebrating, and Hanasían did his customary look about the common room as his eyes adjusted to the light inside. His seeming dark locks were in loose long curls about his shoulders, and his attire was that of the pre-war Dúnedain Rangers of the north. He wore dark leathers and a light cloak of deep gray-green. He made his way to a table across the room that was vacant, and being somewhat weary of the road he took to Edoras, sat and leaned back in the chair that if it could talk, could tell tales into eternity of all it had witnessed. He had beaten the rush of celebrators who were surely heading to this Inn, and Hanasían ordered a tankard of ale from a passing maid. While he waited for her return, he dug out his pipe and pipeweed, and tamped up a pipe. Drawing out a twig he kept, Hanasían lit it from a nearby lamp, and he drew his pipe into a deep orange glow. It was a good trade with the old Hobbit up north, for a store of 1420 Longbottom was relaxing for sure! The pound of Khandese tea he had to give up for it was well worth it! The lass brought the ale, and Hanasían handed her a coin of Kings silver. He smiled and relaxed for the first time in awhile, and he would enjoy his time here.

The banter of the crowds came through the door, and talk of Ithilien and song were in the aire as the noise level went up a notch. Talk from Rohirrim veterans made Hanasían wonder if there was an Annalist of the Rohirrim to record the names and events, lest they be forgotten with the passage of time. Being that the Rohirrim were his mother’s people, he would do what he could to remember, and write. Hanasían’s hand went for his satchel. He was short of parchment, but his quill and ink was in good order, and if events allowed it he would do some writing and gather the stories of the individuals who fought in the war.