[Hookbill the Goomba]

Seleven leant back in his chair and drunk a little port. He took a pipe from his pack and placed its mouthpiece towards the table. He did not light it, but merely held it, as if it held memories of its own. The grey eyes and fair face told him immediately that this was an Elf, and one of high order.

He coughed and cleared his throat, "I am Seleven," he said, "Son of Daynú of Gondor." when no reaction came across Cariâthwen's face, he knew she did not know him of his father, that, in his mind, was a good thing. Many years lay heavily on him, added to them were the years his fathers treachery had laid upon him. Blood was on his hands, kindred blood. But now, here in the unspoken north west of Middle Earth, he was speaking with one who regarded him with spite, not at all.

"My business is nothing terribly private," he said at last, "and I do tend to create the curiosity in those around me. Pray, forget I said such harsh words." he raised his glass as a sigh of a toast.

Looking into the eyes of Cariâthwen, Seleven saw some wisdom that perhaps could help him. He fished out the paper once again from his pack and showed it to her. It was very high quality paper, found only in Gondor and especially Minas Tirith. It was paper designed for historical records and not for ideal letters between friends or foes. "Can you read this?" he asked as he held it up.

Cariâthwen looked and saw that the letters were a mixture of different elvish scripts, as well as some Gondorian and even Dwarvish runes. The End was signed in the plain common tong, 'May you bitterly lie in wait, Smilog.' Seleven watched as Cariâthwen nodded with a look of puzzlement upon her face.

"Worry not," he said, "many of these have I received recently. But it is good to know others are widely learned in other tongs beside their own." Cariâthwen seemed troubled, so Seleven leant forth and spoke softly, "Now, my good Elf, what troubles ye? I see a grief in thine eyes that I have not seen for many years. Perhaps I can lend some aid?"