Greenfield

Naraal could not help but wonder what he had gotten himself into. Angmar had never featured highly on his ‘places to visit’ list, yet here he was, sitting in the shade of a rock, in bleak inhospitable lands, keeping an eye on a bunch of Angmarrim who were about to sacrifice someone they had captured on a wayside altar.

“Captain,” said Naraal, his eyes widening a little as he bowed low before the tall Númenórean. Azrazôr’s hair was almost completely shaved off except for two thick locks on the top of his head, braided with carved bone beads and curled back like the horns of a ram. Gone was the hated mismatched armour scavenged for him after his arrival at Bree; he now wore a panoply exquisitely forged from dark steel.

“Greetings. I take it you are part of the household? If you were not, I suspect you would be dead.”

The dwarf leered up at Naraal. “I serve here,” he said.

(Warning: Apparent suicide.)

It was a dark and dreary land. Mostly it was compacted earth and lots of black rock. There were a few twisted and tormented trees, a little grassland, and a little vegetation. Naraal wondered how any animals survived. The sky overhead was streaked with red and sickly green lights. The whole place cried 'death' to him.

Naraal sat in the corner of the room, a good distance from the main crowd around the bar. He took out his pipe and cleaned the bowl with a small hook, then stuffed it full of fresh pipeweed. Taking up his oval tinderbox, he used the contents to light a flame. 

Naraal had led Captain Greenfield to the side-street tavern with the fewest cockroaches. He knew the Prancing Pony would probably be better accommodation, but there was also the matter of discretion. 

Not that Greenfield seemed in any way discreet.