8/7/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Night < About 9:28 PM >
IC day is: Orgilion <Stars-day>
IC date is: 6 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: First Quarter <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 20 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3044>
----------------------------------------------------------------------
RL time: Thu Aug 07 18:49:24 2008
=====================================================================

Second Floor Hallway: North Wing

A hardwood floor stretches out beneath the feet, from the east end of the hallway where lie two sets of stairs - one going
up to the third floor and another down to the second - to the west end of the hallway where it meets up with another hall
heading south. White walls stretch up to meet a ceiling with exposed wooden beams. Meandering the length of the hallway from
one end to the next reveals several rooms which have been reserved for guests of the Inn. Sconces set into the wall at both
ends and the middle of the hallway have been lit to allow passersby plenty of illumination during the night.

Contents:
Galharth
Ranaentaure
Maglind
Thorhur
=====================================================================

Darkness has fallen, and the starlight can only be seen from the single window of the room that several elves share. Two
large beds, an overstuffed chair, and a roomy window sill are all visible as the light from a lantern burns softly overhead.
Sounds of loud humans and possibly a few halflings echo through the hall from the common room downstairs, creating an
environment uncommon for the visitors residing within the room.

Laying in one of the beds, atop a fluffy comforter, is the Tailor Galharth. Several large sploches on his face match the
teal of his robes and seem to glow a strange green in the dim lantern light. "The sound below is torture, can they get any
louder?" The Craftsmaster mutters in a groan.

"Patience, mellon," a figure says quietly, outlined by starlight upon the windowsill. Sitting there, knees pulled to touch
his chest, Maglind looks at Galharth, then lowers his gaze. "You know that this is the only respectable inn in the town. We
were fortunate to have a place, you know -- some of them fear us all the more now."

The sounds of sniffing come from the other bed. Seconds later, Thorhur sits up and groans. "These beds smell horrible! How
do these humans sleep here?" Soon enough, Thorhur sits and rubs the back of his neck. "You are right though, Maglind. It is
nice we may stay...although I will never understand why one must pay to rest, a common need for all creatures."

The Knight stands up and shakes his head. "Would someone else like the bed? I don't mind trading," he offers softly.

The noise of conversation in the room elicits a rustle of hides from the floor where a hunter has bedded down, and
Ranaentaure raises his head to peer with half-lidded eyes over the others in the inn room. He doesn't speak, instead
indicting the noisemakers in the room with his sleepy glare.

There are footsteps, light but steady, that might be heard coming down the hallway. Instead of continuing past the door,
though, they stop right before it. A firm knock sounds against the door, then silence.

"I was attacked, and yet they fear us?" Galharth complains softly as he throws an arm over his face as if to block out some
of the sound that echo's within the inn. "Is it me, or are they killing an animal down there, for certainly even they can
not sound so bad singing."

Pausing his words as a knock comes to the door, the Tailor lifts the arm from his face and turns to the sound. "Ostiel would
not knock.... would she?" he asks softly as his gaze remains upon the door.

"For four more silver they might have given us more rooms," chides Maglind gently with a grin. "Hold your nose, Knight."

"Ostiel would most definitely not knock. I imagine she would burst in upon us vengefully," jests the marchwarden, cringing
at the thought. A small chuckle, and then he calls out in Westron, "Who knocks?"

Thorhur turns down to Ranaentaure. "Come ellon, would you like the bed?" he asks quietly before turning at the knock. He
stares at the door for a moment, then lets forth a breath. "I am sure it is not Ostiel. What if it's the owner of the
establishment...what did they say his name was? Sob? Rob?" he sits back down on the bed facing the door as Maglind asks who
knocks.

Ranaentaure's look shifts to Thorhur and one nostril flares at the invitation. "I can smell that bedding from here," he
answers. The knock draws his attention to the door, but that doesn't stop him from continuing, "Why did you think I chose
the floor to begin with?"

There is a shifting outside, and then a curse as there is a sound of something hitting the floor. A long moment passes,
before the same voice says, "It's, uh...Rowynne. I've food sent up from Mr. Nob if you would like it."

Turning to look at Maglind, there is a small flicker of uncertainty in Galharth's gaze. "She's not yet chewed me out for my
folly, so take care in hinting what you say Maglind. At the interaction between Thorhur and Ranaentaure, a shadow of a smile
rises at the corner of the Tailors mouth.

At the sound of something dropping, the Craftsmaster winces. "Come in!" he calls out as he again covers his face with his
arm. "With each sound, my head pounds all the more."

"Try that 'sleep' thing humans do so often," prescribes Maglind, swinging his legs carelessly from the windowsill. In
passing to the door, he peers through the crack before opening it, and stands carefully aside.

"Shh," he says to whomever is outside.

Thorhur snaps. "Nob! That's his name," he whispers as he moves towards the door. He stands next to Maglind, then says to
nobody in general, "What is sleep exactly? I've heard of it, but I don't think I've ever really done it. Is it supposed to
be healing?"

A sighs comes from under the Tailor's arm. "We've all had the misfortune enough to know the benefits of sleep to heal. It is
nothing new." Galharth mutters softly. "Now let our visitor in or they'll think we're plotting something because of the
attack."

As the door is opened, a petite young woman clad in a dusky pink dress is revealed, her dark curls pinned back from her
face. She looks to the unfamiliar elf who greets her at the door, before saying, "Now, don't shush me, elf." Her voice is
soft though, as sharp copper eyes look past the tall figure and into the room. Stepping lightly, she enters the room,
shaking her head. "The one that stayed in my house was nicer than this..."

"I'm sorry to be rude," Maglind replies in Westron, immediately meek. Hurriedly moving a cushion so as to make room upon a
chest of drawers, the elf gestures, "Thank you. Our companion is injured, you see, and we are trying to give him peace ...."

As if embarassed to be caught lying down, Ranaentaure sits up among the hides he used to make his bed and then leans one
shoulder against the wall. His eyes track the human girl with the tray of food as she makes her way in, staring mutely.

Thorhur steps forward with a smile. "I am very sorry," he also says, taking two trays from the woman. "Here, I will make
this easier for you," he says, bringing one tray to Galharth. "Eat well mellon," he says to the Craftsmaster.

Thorhur is famished, so the second tray is his. He plops down on his own bed and moves into the shadows, beginning his own
meal.

"Which isn't happening as they wish..." Galharth mutters softly in common tongue, from under the arm flopped over his face.
Sighing softly, it is clear that he suffers. Falling silent only a moment, he switches to Sindarin, as he adds, "Perhaps we
should send a hunter to offer to kill the animal they're strangling down there." The Tailor says of the singing that
persistently fills the air.

Groaning as Thorhur puts the food near his head, Galharth removes his arm from his face to look upon the food. Does he look
green? Indeed he does! "Oh please move it, I'm not ready to eat just yet...." he pleads softly to anyone willing to come to
his aid.

"Thank you," Maglind says in Westron as the trays are set down. Galharth's tray he gladly takes, and sets between
Ranaentaure and himself. "Who knows, mellon, what the effects of spirits are upon men," he murmurs quietly as stooping,
picks a slice of bread from the plate, and resumes his perch upon the windowsill, staring thoughtfully through the glass
panes.

Rowynne is surprised when the tray is taken from her, but she lets the elf take it nonetheless; it's making her job easier,
so why not? Copper eyes move their attention to Galharth now, and she rests her hands on her hips as she studies him for a
moment. "Peace? It's a bit hard with the racket downstairs, I think," she says quietly, though her voice still carries a
spark. "They'll settle down in an hour or two, after a few pass out."

"The singing really isn't all that bad," Ranaentaure observes, speaking Sindarin from where he sits, and he leans over to
the tray that's been set nearby to pluck a small apple from its edge. "No worse than the cries of anguish I've been
listening to about it," the hunter concludes.

"Let them drink and be merry then, and hope that they'll find themself in the land of slumber all the sooner," the Tailor
mutters as he rolls slightly to make an attempt to gain a sitting position. Wincing several times, and clearly turning
colors of reds and greens to compliment his effort, the injured firstborn, finally struggles to gain an upright positions.

For a moment his eyes close, but they flash open in response to Ranaentaure's words. "You wound me Ranaentaure!" he snaps in
sindarin as he offers a glare to the ellon. "Thank you and please thank Mr. Nob for the food," he says weakly in common
tongue as he turns his glare from his kindred to a softer gaze to the female human.

As Rowynne watches the one elf she recognizes, her eyes soften a touch. She is quiet a moment, before she searches through
the various pockets of the apron she wears over the dress. It takes her as second, but she seems to find what she is looking
for: a few packets of herbs. "The healer that stayed with me left these before she and Muirgheal rode off," she explains,
setting them on Galharth's tray. "She said they'd help with aches and such."

As he bites into his apple, Ranaentaure casts a sidewise look to Galharth that gives little in the way of sympathy for the
wounding he's given by being out of sorts about his own awakening by those he's been bunked with. Rowynne receives his
attention again when the woman speaks, but it's a straight, hard stare that conveys little comprehension of who she is or
what she's saying.

If elven ears are as keen as they are said to be, the occupants of this room might hear someone rather rotund puffing up the
stairs. Nob pauses a moment at the landing of the first floor and wipes his face, eyes the second flight with disfavor and
then begins to climb it as well. "Too many steps," he grumbles "Tisn't proper. I wonder Mister Butterbur allows it, I do."
His voice grows louder and louder (though it isn't loud) as he climbs nearer, finally arriving triumphantly at the proper
floor.

Offering Rowynne a glance of appreciation, he nods his head towards the woman. "Thank you," Galharth says in common, as he
glances at the herbs. Turning his gaze to Ranaentaure, he frowns slightly and he turns to their native tongue, "She offers
healing herbs, but I suspect Ostiel will not take well to accepting the healing efforts of a human. Do you think we should
brew some tea so not to offend the human?" The Tailor asks.

Before an anwer can be heard, the sound of puffing, and muttering can be heard from outside the room. Turning, and peering
through the doorway, the Craftsmaster waits to see who or what might come.

Rowynne watches the male elvenfolk, not at all understanding what they are saying. Nonetheless, her hands are on her hips
again as she sees Galharth frown; well, it would seem something is amiss. "Muirgheal's healer friend was an elf," she
continues, perhaps thinking they wish to hear more of the story. She stops there, though, as Galharth looks to the doorway.

"Tea may be nice," Ranaentaure agrees in Sindarin as he chews over a hunk of apple, and his eyes remain fixed on Rowynne in
spite of the sounds of a struggle beyond the door. "If nothing else, it may put you to sleep so I may return to it as well."

Nob regains his color and breath (and temper) swiftly, once he is no longer being required to Climb Stairs, and he begins to
trot along the hallway, stopping at last in front of the partly opened door and peering inside. His brown eyes move along,
lighting on each one present, giving Rowynne an approving nod, and stopping at last on Galharth, to whom he bows, and then
bustles towards. "I only wanted to say," he begins, "How dreadfully sorry I am that such a thing should happen to you while
you were here. Here! And staying at the Pony!" As if such a thing should automatically shield one from any unpleasantness.
But his distress is genuine, he is nearly wringing his hands. "I should never have hired her back on again," he says
unhappily, "But indeed, I never knew she was ... was a /thief/! And she seemed so distressed."

"Ah," Galharth says to Rowynne in the common tongue, "I do recall that you said something about Seekers wife travelling to
Imldhrim with a healer." Pausing a moment he looks to the tray, "Thank you for your kindness," he says as his gaze goes from
the herbs to the ellon.

"Forgive my keeping you from your sleep," the Craftmaster says coldly in Sindarin, though the effort to put forth the tone
and force of his voice clearly pains him. "I'm sure we'll soon be back to the privacy of our tents soon enough."

Turning to the Halflings voice, the Tailor winces from the effort. "It was my own fault," he says as his words return to the
common tongue of the humans, "The good folk of this town warned me, and I choose unwisely to seek information that should
have been left to others to learn." Frowning, he lowers his head as if embarrassed. "I had not expected the robbery either.
I should have been able to prevent such things...."

Tirilalaith ascends the stairs, her slippers hardly making a noise on the wooden floor. Her hands clasped before her, the
elleth glides along the hallway to the room that holds those she seeks. Pausing in the doorway, a fair brow arches, her gaze
drifting from one occupant to the other. A single hand smoothes at the skirt of her gown as she steps into the room, her
feet carrying her closer to the two elven males. "<Sindarin> I trust I am not interrupting?" she inquires.

As Nob enters the room, Rowynne bows her head in greeting to him. She listens as the others speak, frowning in confusion a
little, before she slowly seems to put some of it together in her head. She then lets out a snort as Galharth's words.
"Pardon me for saying, but you shouldn't beat yourself up over it," the young woman says, "It could have happened to
anyone."

Ranaentaure goes silent, having irritated the wounded elf twice and knowing that the stress of annoyance can't be good for
the wounded man. He watches the new arrivals make their way into the room and eats his apple, cautious not to drip the
fruit's sticky juice on the hides he's sitting on at one side of the room.

"Nay," Galharth says in Sindarin, "You interrupt nothing. The woman Rowynne," he says sweeping a hand to Rowynne, he says in
the sweet elven tongue, "Offers herbs so to ease my aches and pains." Glancing at Ranaentaure, he frowns and adds, "Which
might be wise since some within our party grow weary of my whining."

Sighing softly, the Tailor looks to the female human, "Forgive me, so few within our group speak the human language." he
says in the common tongue as he looks from Rowynne and then to Nob, and then back again. "Who might be at fault, Rowynne?
Even you warned me of Cordelia Wood's behavior."

Tirilalaith's eyes shift towards the woman in question, her head inclining deeply in greeting before she looks again to the
tailor. "<Sindarin> It is kindly offered..." The elleth peruses the herbs, curious as to what is offered. She muses over his
choices for a moment before giving a tiny shake of her head. "<Sindarin> Ostiel would know better than I what would serve
you best." Looking towards the hides and the more sullen elf, amusement finds the corner of her mouth briefly before
serenity is restored. "<Sindarin> I had come in hopes of lifting your spirits, but perhaps it is not you who does need it.
Good evening," she murmurs, the last for Ran.

Rowynne actually shakes her head at the elf. "Yes, I did," she says, "And I apologize if I was rude in the sewing shop that
day. What happened to my friends is still very fresh in my mind, and it hurts me to think of it. But I understand where you
can from back then. You couldn't have known she would try something like...I've heard she did."

Nob listens for a few minutes, then shakes his head, opens his mouth, but says nothing - other than, "If you'll excuse me a
moment." And he turns, edging back out of the room.

Ranaentaure speaks no further to Galharth, left squarely out of the conversation by simply not speaking the language that
the tailor does to the human and halfling. Tirilalaith's greeting receives a look and a slight nod of the head.

A little bit of time passes; not much. Enough for a stair-hating hobbit to climb to the attics and back down again. And then
Nob's padding footsteps return, and there is another pair that echoes his. The hobbit pokes his head into the doorway and
clears his throat. "If, er, sir, you have a moment? There's a lad here wants a word with you..." His anxious eyes seek
Galharth's.

Galharth lowers his head and sighs softly. "<Sindarin> I am at fault for my own folly Tirilalaith, but I appreciate your
kindness." Looking up to his companions, he frowns. "<Sindarin> Ostiel and Maglind both warned me not to trust the humans,
but with these good folks offering their kindness in both food and concern, it should be clear what brought me to make the
effort." Lifting the corner of his mouth in a semi smile, the Tailor looks to Ranaentaure, "<Sindarin> That hafling that
just stepped out, Mr. Nob, he speaks enough Sindarin to say hello."

Turning to Rowynne, the Craftmaster opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by Nob's words. Furrowing his brow
at Nob's returning words, the Firstborn looks to his companions and then back to Nob. 'He is welcome, he can speak to me in
the presence of my kindred.' he says in the common tongue

Keldean stands in the hallway behind Nob, his auburn curls matted from sleep. His eyes are bloodshot and rimmed in red, his
clothes rumpled and still spattered with paint from the day before. The teen has a depressed, almost defeated look to him,
but there's one thing Galharth may notice right away. He's holding that elven longsword, almost hugging it to his chest.

Nob bobs his head in understanding and hisses out the door, "Go on then!" Then he sidles out of the way, making room for
Keldean to go in all the way.

"You found my sword!" Galharth calls out, as he rises from the bed too quickly. Falling without grace to his knees, he looks
both stunned and embarrassed. "Where?" he says as he closes his eyes to regain his balance.

Tirilalaith says in Sindarin, "It is ever wise to tread with caution when one does not know the ground," Tirilalaith returns
to the Tailor. Again her gaze wanders those gathered, weighing them thoughtfully. "Let us hope that your suffering is not
for naught, that some good will come of this." Stepping back to make room for the re-entry of the hobbit and the other, the
elleth moves a bit closer to Rana. "Is the company so unwelcome?" she asks, her lips turning up just a bit. As Galharth
falls, she turns quickly, her eyes widening ever so slightly. The elleth doesn't hesitate to move forward, an arm extending
as she reaches to assist him should he need it, her blue eyes turning on the pair who stirred up the trouble. Even as she
gives her disapproval to Nob and Keldean, her voice is gentle when she speaks to Galharth. "Sit you down, else you'll harm
yourself even more."

Keldean hesitates, then walks into the room. The teen looks absolutely drained, as if the very spirit has been crushed out
of him. "I.. " He looks around at the elves and sees Giliath and that unjudging stare. "I took it. Here. I'm sorry." He
moves forward to shove it at Galharth before he loses his nerve. "If you want me to go to jail.. or.. something.. I will. I
don't care." Then the teen digs into his pocket and pulls out a handful of silver and copper. "Here's your money."

Ranaentaure had gotten halfway to his feet when Galharth fell, but the more rapid response from Tirilalaith puts the
hunter's effort to waste and rather than move toward the wounded elf he leans his shoulders against the wall. "<Sindarin>
The company is not unwelcome," he answers Tirilalaith. "<Sindarin> I'm... " he begins, but doesn't finish, instead turning
back to regard the three visitors to the room of the elves.

Breathing heavily the Tailor offers Tirilalaith a glance of appreciation. "<Sindarin> You've the instincts of a healer," he
whispers softly while accepting her heling hand to rise back to sit upon the bed. "<Sindarin> Thank you." The thanks are
quick, but not so quick as a Marchwarden's blade, and concern registers quickly as the sound of drawn steel reaches the
injured Tailor's ears. "<Sindarin> Let the humans handle this, for certainly anything we might do will only shine poorly on
us all."

With the calm heads of the Guards now firmly being demonstrated, Galharth looks to Keldean. Gingerly accepting the sword and
the money, placing it upon the bed beside him, crystal blue eyes peer intently at the boy. 'It was you that hit me?' he asks
softly.

Tirilalaith inclines her head at the compliment, her hand steady as she waits for the tailor to settle once more. Her hand
returns to her side, her eyes still watching the elf intently, just in case. As he takes his steel, she steps back again,
rejoining Rana. "<Sindarin> I do not understand," she whispers softly to the other. "<Sindarin> What am I lacking?"

Nob's eyes go very round and then narrow in a frown. "You /took/ it/?" he says, appalled, and condemning. But he falls
silent as the elves speak, until his eyes widen once more and an undignified squeak escapes his mouth as one of the tall
foreigners pulls out a sword! He pulls on Keldean's shirt back, urging the boy out of the room, out of danger.

Ranaentaure says, "<Sindarin> Your guess is as good as mine," quietly to Tirilalaith as the woman moves in near him and the
tension grows heavy among the other elves. "<Sindarin> What about this gift would annoy the Marchwarden so?"

Tirilalaith continues to watch the drama unfold before them, more puzzled than concerned, trusting in the abilities of the
MarchWarden for the moment to keep them from harm from these very short creatures. "<Sindarin> It is Galharth's own sword
but..." The elleth shakes her head slowly, her voice never above a whisper as she speaks to her companion.

Keldean stares at Galharth, dead silent after the question is posed. He opens his mouth to answer but then one of them pulls
out a dagger and the youth's bloodshot brown eyes open wide in fear. He draws back towards the open door, not needing Nob's
urging, his gaze flitting between Galharth and the Marchwarden. "Yes.. I did it.. I'm sorry." He repeats his apology. "I
didn't want you to hurt .." His words catch in his throat and he can feel the tightening in his chest again. "her.. "

"<Sindarin> The thief and attacker show's his hand." Galharth says with a frown as he peers at Keldean with a blank stare.
'I knew Cordelia had attacked me, but ....' Catching sight of Nob, pulling the youth back, the Tailor frowns. 'We'll harm no
one, Mr. Nob. This is a human matter.' the Craftmaster says flatly in common. 'Hurt her? Hurt Cordelia? You have more to
fear from her than any standing in this room!'

Looking to his companions, the ellon falls back into their native language, "<Sindarin> It is my sword, and this youth
admits taking it from me, and with his confession he so too admits that it was he who attacked me from behind."

Nob looks uncertain, but, well, it's somehow hard to disbelieve elves, after all. There are their voices - so clear and
melodic. He doesn't move closer to the door, but he does stop backing away. And with the hobbit a small but stolid presence
directly behind him, Keldean might find it difficult to flee also; did that come into his mind.

"I didn't have anything to fear from her!" He demands with more spirit than he's shown since he first walked in. "You had
your hand on your sword.. People in Bree don't carry swords and I didn't know if you were going to hurt her. She was
afraid.. and now she's gone! It's all your fault!" Oh, anger feels good. It fills in some of that hollow aching around his
broken heart. He can feel the tears building again and furiously tries to blink them back. "I'm sorry! It was stupid and I
wasn't thinking.. and now.. " The boy draws in a shuddering breath.

Ranaentaure says, "<Sindarin> And that is why we are unwelcoming to his kind in the wood," as his eyes move from Keldean to
Galharth to the armed Marchwarden. "<Sindarin> But we are not in the wood now. To act could endanger us, could damage our
welcome among these creatures." His gaze slowly moves back to Keldean and he stares hard, as if making a point to memorize
the young man's features. "<Sindarin> Hold your hand, but remember him to be no friend to the elves."

Tirilalaith arches a brow at Galharth's announcement, surprise taking her features for half a second before calm finds her
again. Her lips part to speak but close once more as Keldain starts. "<Sindarin> He is but a child," the elleth murmurs
softly.

'She has every reason to fear me, for I can see through her lies,' Galharth says firmly, though his voice is weak and
strained. 'You've fallen for her honeyed promises, and I pity you more than I hold any anger with you.' Looking to Nob, he
sighs. 'Sir, would you be so kind as to notify the guards of this land. Half the mystery of my attack now stands before us.'

"<Sindarin> We have some friends here, though few. They will handle this and see justice done." the Tailor says flatly to
his fellows. Turning towards the elleth he adds, "<Sindarin> Judge them not by age but action. He wronged me..."

"Er," Nob says, still sounding rather nervous. "Notify them of, um, what, sir?" He edges around Keldean enough so that he
can see the elf better, and his brown eyes dart from the boy to the injured Galadhrim. "Do you, er, wish to, well, that is,
press charges?" The words sound almost foreign, like he isn't truly certain what they are.

Keldean has little reaction.. he had expected as much. He slumps back against the doorframe, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"You don't understand.. nobody does. It was her family.." He says in a pained voice, reaching one hand up to wipe his eyes.

Tirilalaith tilts her head ever so slightly at Galharth's words to her. "<Sindarin> I do not say that he should not give
penance, but our own youth did hold many unfortunate mistakes. Mistakes that we did learn from. I do judge the action, but
temper that judgment with remembrance of the reckless nature of youth." Her gaze returns to the one in question, her head
shaking slightly. "<Sindarin> I do not have the wisdom of others but I sense little from this one beyond emotions
unbridled." The elleth moves closer to Galharth's place of rest, her steps silent as a hand stretched out to indicate the
bed. "<Sindarin> We might have the MarchWarden keep a keen eye on him until the morning and tend to matters with the dawn."
A brow arches again, her gaze expectant.

For his part, Ranaentaure has fallen silent. He stands against the wall in the shadows, watching the scene unfold before him
with motion only in his roaming eyes.

'I charge nothing, but instead leave justice in the hands of the Humans to do as they will with this child. It is not I or
any of the firstborn to guide the fate of man.' Galharth says flatly as he offers Keldean a glance of contempt. Turning to
Tirilalaith, he shakes his head. "<Sindarin> It is a human matter. I have my sword and my portion of the coin that the Lady
Galadriel gave us, and I trust the rangers to return my dagger once they catch the human woman responsible for this matter."
With his words exhausted, the Tailor leans back onto the bed. 'I grow weary, and now must rest....."<Sindarin> he says
softly as he closes his eyes in an effort to drift off to a healing sleep.

Nob backs away, resuming his tugging at Keldean's shirt. To the boy, he whispers, "Come on..." Whatever the lad has done, it
likely wasn't as bad as it could have been, and he /did/ return the sword. And Nob isn't going to let any child in his
charge be attacked by elves, calm as they seem at the moment, and even if they /are/ paying guests. "Come on!" he says
again, louder and more pre-emptorily.

Tirilalaith nods once more to Galharth's words, her manner easing a bit as he settles down finally. Turning to the room at
large, she studies them, quiet for a moment. Both hands rise suddenly, flicking the visitors away with a shooing motion.
"<Sindarin> Leave him to her rest," she tells the small ones, the strange words lyrical if insistant. Glancing over her
shoulder, she finds a small smile for Ran. "<Sindarin> His rest does mean yours as well, does it not?"

Keldean is pulled from his dejection by Nob tugging at his shirt. He drags himself out of the room, stuffing his hands into
his pockets. He glances back once and that expression of contempt from Galharth has him shrinking back. Once they're out in
the hall he looks down at Nob, waiting to see what the hobbit says.