"Welcome to The Prancing Pony" The Ranger said from underheath his hood. He took hold of the door-ring and pulled open the door. A shower of water from the top of the staircase flowing freely over the edge and down to the stone road below.
Entering, they were met by the loud noise of talking, singing and drunken squabbling. Avarand looked around, carefully studying the place in its entirety. Everywhere around him were men of all sorts of different stature: Local guardsmen, travellers, brawlers and sellswords. Many were armed, anything from crude swords, to clubs and hammers to great axes of war were hanging loosely from belts, stuffed under the tables or rested against the benches. The stale smell of beverages, filth and smoked weed held the room in a half-visible mist. Listening closer, Avarand could make out some of the topics of conversation: Concerning a growing threat in the north, stirrings in the black land of Mordor and the occasional man drowning his sorrows in ale, lamenting their lives and situation.
"Hey you! Pointy-ears, get out of here!" Avarand looked to his left. A man, with a somewhat chestnut-coloured hair, beard and the garbs of a common brigand had uttered the words. Avarand turned to the man, and he recoiled slightly, clearly not expecting his words to cause any form of reaction. He continued staring angrily at Avarand, though did nothing to back his words. Turning around, he walked over to another man who was laying over a table, seemingly unresponsive and kicked him in the leg. The drunken many only grumbling and feebly swinging his arm out, knocking over several wooden cups which all came crashing down on the floor. The angry man, seemingly unsatisfied at the reaction, returned to his previous spot and continued to stare at Avarand. Turning his attention away, Avarand's eyes sought the dim light of the fireplace, shining between the many people huddling around. They too were talking, lamenting the foul weather of the evening and how the rain did nothing but turn the soil into heavy mud.
For a time he walked around in the room, watching his surroundings, observing what he considered a decline in the honour of men, though he discarded the thought as merely a way to spend time with others in merriment, though in ways unfamiliar to him. Deciding to focus more intently, he looked around for the Ranger. Yet he could not spot him.
Suddenly he heard a voice in his mind, one fairer than he had ever heard before, : "Who might you be? Wandering alone in the lands of Men?". As clear as the water of the Bruinen, yet no louder than a whisper, a voice most soothing to his troubled mind. he looked around bewildered as to the voice's origin. His eyes came to rest upon a group of travellers, though there were no indications they had done anything or were any more aware of their surroundings. He looked to his left, and it dawned upon him. From the direction of the larger fireplace, he saw the outline of a person, slowly walking towards him. As he focused his gaze, the shadow gained form and colour and he looked upon someone whose stature and fairness stunned him. An Elf-maiden came towards him, of the most stunning beauty. Her eyes calm and reflecting small glimmers of light like the starts of the evening sky. He could feel of her presence, a certain anxiety, mixed with great anticipation. She wore an intricately adorned dress, which radiance seemed to enhance whatever light that shone upon it. She stopped before him and looked upon him. "Greetings friend."
"Greetings." he said, bowing his head respectfully to her and said: "Who might you be?"
"My name is Ilviel..."
