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The door to the tavern squeaked as it opened, casting a band of light across the cobbled streets of Edoras. It was pouring rain outside, and the strangers’ cloaks dripped water onto the wooden floors of the tavern. One newcomer was hunched into her cloak, its hood pulled up over her head, hiding her face. Her long brown hair was as soaked as the rest of her.
The other stood tall, the water seeming to flow off of her clothes and hair, leaving her looking as if she’d never walked into the rain in the first place. She pushed her hood back, revealing long, intricately braided blonde hair and pointed elf ears. Her steps were light and silent, despite the squeakiness of the floorboards.
“You’d best come by the fire,” said the innkeeper, a friendly-looking man who was carving a large wheel of cheese into smaller pieces, “it’s not a good night to be out in the wilds.”
The two newcomers settled at a table in the corner, the brown-haired one never pushing back the deep cowl of her cloak. She sat hunched in her chair, watching the minstrel who was standing on a table in the center of the inn, playing the lute. The elf took off her cloak and returned to the bar.
“Name’s Teithwen,” she said,
then gestured to her friend in the corner “and that’s Ristannen. I don’t much care for wine, lest it be aran Thranduil’s Dorwinion. But I see you have quite the selection of cheeses.”
The innkeeper’s eyes lit up as she mentioned his cheese. “I’ve got some good smoked gouda, just the sort of thing that comforts a weary traveler after a long day’s march.”
“Aye, that would do us some good.”
Ristannen looked over at Teithwen from the table in the corner, the two seeming to have some unspoken communication.
“And bring an ale for Ristannen, if you please.”
As they waited for the innkeeper to bring their order, they watched the minstrel. Cethlië was a lute player of some renown in those parts, yet something felt off to the two travelers. Despite their lovely, a little otherworldly song, they seemed to radiate an air of malice. They turned their gaze to the table in the corner.
Ristannen shifted as she felt Cethlië’s intense gaze on her. It felt like she was being stripped bare, as if she was being analyzed despite the folds of the heavy cloak around her. Under her cloak, one hand moved to the hilt of her longsword. She relaxed slightly at the familiar feel of the leather-wrapped hilt.
Teithwen didn’t seem particularly bothered by Cethlië’s intense gaze, though her elven ears twitched slightly.
Cethlië looked away as the innkeeper walked over, holding a tankard of ale and a plate laden with various cheeses.
“You let me know if you need anything else,” he said, “or if you want to try any more cheeses. I make them all right here, in-house. The name’s Feorm.”
A spider from the web in the corner crawled onto the table. Ristannen stared at it for a moment, a rather concerned expression on her face. Before she could react, Teithwen squished the spider under her palm.
“I don’t like spiders,” said the elf, wiping the dead spider onto her cloak, “they remind me of Mirkwood.”