[Gwathagor]

A shadow passed over the warrior elf's face. He hesitated.

"First," he said, "Let us return to yon house of food and drink, and as we go, you must recount to me your own tale, and how you came to be thus sore beset by wolves. Tell me all," and here he became, were it possible, even more grave and solemn, "And spare no words in the telling, for I have patience enough, and in the thoroughness of your account may lie the unraveling of this riddle. When I have been satisfied regarding my own worries, whether they are true or false, then I shall gladly unfold my own story to you and any others who find pleasure in it...if the length of it does not turn them to stone with boredom."

He laughed, or rather chuckled to himself, and his fair, grave face briefly took on a new aspect as he did so. Less proud and careworn he seemed, but more fierce, as if the smoldering coal within him had leapt up into flame for an instant, dancing and laughing, but hotter than ever; and more volatile. (He laughed as often in battle as he did in feasting.) Then the mask of care and studied gravity fell across his countenance once again; the fire fell back to a coal, burning safe and slow, but inextinguishable.

They were walking back towards the inn, and the elf-maid had just begun to tell what she knew of the curious wolf invasion as the tall elf listened attentively. Suddenly he smote his brow with his right hand, as the left was resting ready upon his scabbard.

"Again, your pardon! My manners are not what they were," he exclaimed, turning to the other. "Once, I did know how to behave in good company; but that was long ago and far away. I am called Gwathagor by most who know me. I have gone by that name long enough, and it will continue to serve. What is your name? And pray carry on your tale."

Perhaps these were only ordinary packs of hungry wolves, forced to move south in search of better hunting. That in itself would be bad enough. But, in truth, he had little hope that when all was told this would prove to be any other than the forays of the Draugring, the Cold-Wolves. He could track them easy enough; more difficult would be the actual battle. He would fight them alone, without hesitation, because he knew that the Shire-folk were not warriors. They were cooks and farmers and brewers. They did not deserve this plague. Nonetheless, the aid of another warrior such as himself would be warmly welcomed. This, in part, was his purpose: to return to the inn and gather one or two others who had enough experienced with weapons to not be a liability. They could then return to the tree and from there follow the wolf-tracks back into the hills, whence they had come, and then...he was not sure. But that would come soon enough. He gave the other elf his full attention.