Two figures sat in the flower-covered yard of the empty house. A hastily scribbled sign at the entrance signified the home had no one to call its master, but the two seemed comfortable enough, or perhaps, one of them did.
The Daleman was leaning on one of the trees, his face sheltered from the harsh dusk glare by a wide-brimmed hat. Smoking his pipe, he listened to the noise around him with a content smile. That noise came from the one beside him, an elf from Greenwood the Great it would seem by appearance, though he was hard to notice, sitting wrapped in cloaks and robes that mirrored the grass around them. It seemed almost as if he was part of the grassy plain, a patch of grass that would go unsuspected anywhere else, though here he broke the pattern of the wildflowers at their feet.
An unsteady voice read out from a worn note, a sharp accent of one, who does not understand what he is reading, apparent as the words left his mouth '...aaand... I... Raaan... faaar...Aaa-... Aaawaaay...' A sigh escaped the lips and eyes flew to the man near him.
'Men... In Bree... Their eyes - no trust - to me.' he tried explaining, gestures and expressions giving the clumsy words some sense.
A laugh could be heard from the Daleman, who watched the elf with amusement. He caught the confused stare that was directed at him, shaking his head as if a man lecturing a child. He pushed himself off the tree, lazily snapping a wildflower from the ground and reaching over to the elf.
'It is for the reason you are odd to them, Sir Crownlight.' the nickname was said with a sting of jesting, something not lost in their expressions as they sat. Without waiting for protest, the weathered fingers pushed the flower into the locks of the other, the color of tempered tree bark now laying disturbed with the shade of yellow petals 'There. Now you look like a friend.'
Friend. Galtharian knew the word mellon, used in cold greetings among his kind. Said out of some lazy kindness and habit, no greater meaning behind it. But this new word 'friend' seemed to hold some meaning in these odd lands and difficult tongue.
He took the flower out of his hair with a pout, still unable to reply to the endless teasing in the language he was learning, turning to face to the footsteps approaching them. A pair of soft leather boots shuffled through the grass, quiet and graceful, followed closely by the rhythmic and proud walk of a soldier, uncaring for the noise he made. Galtharian looked up to the two with a smile, they carried drinks and food.
He extended his arm to the two figures, pointing the flower to their faces as they made their way towards them. His uncertain, hesitant voice carried about him a sense of determination as he called out to Cedmon and Dolothrion 'Hello... Friend.' A chuckle escaped his lips and he looked over to Lupold, searching for any reaction.
It was warm.
Galtharian shook his head, emerging from the daze that took over his senses amidst the tavern talk. There were footsteps approaching, ones he did not know, but that only brought more cheer as he looked up to the doorway with a warm smile.
A crown of fresh wildflowers adorned his head, his locks falling freely over his shoulders. He no longer looked like grass amidst a field; heavy robes that fell over his frame held now the colors of flowers in spring. His voice rang out, a flow of words that spoke of many winters in shared conversations, of comfort, of home:
'Hello, friend, welcome to The Hammer and the Harp. What can I get you?'
