The innkeeper takes in what Med and Pral have to say with no more expression than a respectful nod, but as Elendil speaks, his eyes narrow and his look becomes stony.
"'Elf-friend', is it?" Thumbs spits over the railing and gazes at the dead raven lying in the road. "I'm gonna leave that be, 'cause hospitality is my business. And anyway I don't think ye know what yer sayin'. If you want to learn a thing or two about elves, stop in at the stables tomorrow and talk to the one-legged farrier, Tomar. He went out with a caravan four years ago. Twenty seven men set out, including a dozen armored veterans on horseback. Only three came back. A soldier and a cook, draggin' Tomar between 'em. Priest came down and healed up his wounds, but it was too late to save the leg."
"Cook told me, 'fore he went back north, that the elves let those three live on purpose. All the way back over Ferril's pass and onto the Collar itself, he said there were shadows in the woods, lurkin' about with their bows, but never firing." He grunts. "Now why do you suppose they would do that? Butcher twenty four and escort the last three back home?"
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