“M’lady! Well met!!” Envinyatar nodded at the barkeep who’d noted his arrival. “Whatever she’s having, I’ll take one, too.” He took a step back in order to take a more full look at his friend, lingering a bit on the scaled companion who rode her shoulder. The Wyrm returned his gaze in a most measuring way.
A nudge at his elbow alerted him to the arrival of his drink, a tall mug, filled to overflowing with a stout – dark and topped with a creamy head. Lifting it to his mouth, he first drew in an appreciative whiff of its aroma. And then a long pull on it and he could feel the wondrous liquid slide from mouth to belly.
With a satisfied sigh, Envinyatar set the mug on the bar top. “Now, let’s catch up, shall we?” He looked down at his dusty boots and well-worn leather pants. ‘For my part, as you can see, I’ve been out traipsing – back country, mostly. Just seeing what’s going on.”
“And you?” he prompted, looking her up and down. “You look a bit dusty, yourself.” He nodded at her companion, giving the Wyrm a quick wink and smile. “And who is this lovely creature?”
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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