Last night, there was much talk in the Hall of a band of Men encamped outside the Gate of the Valley, and some thought they were refugees, fleeing the darkness, and others thought them a group of roving bandits, and some thought they might be supplicants, messengers sent to ask for aid from Lord Elrond: arms, or stores of food, though I thought this year’s harvest a bountiful one, as there was plenty of rain and sunshine, in proper amounts.
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