”Owe? I do wonder that you should consider anything owed, Master Bowman.” And yet, as the Elvenking dismounts, his words leave behind a living imprint of something quite the contrary in their wake. “Or should I rather defer to you as otherwise? Grander titles are surely to be had, Bard of Girion, Lord of Dale, Dragonslayer.” Woven through the mild tranquility of his voice is a thread of amusement; there and gone.
His company numbers few— four elves, armored in boiled leather and carapaces, lightly armed. Not those of the brass and gold fleet who stood posted so many months previously. Thranduil himself is fitted for travel; a long tunic, leathers, and the like, his hair pulled back in a rider’s braid.
“If your lands are to become once more the hearts blood of trade in the east, it is only right to see your kingdom hale.”
The titles were nothing unfamiliar. If anything, they were slowly overtaking his old namesake of bargeman, archer, bowman, troublemaker. Bard shan’t complain in comparison, though it gave him a sense of rule and leadership that supported his every word and move that he ushered, not wanting to cause disarray. His eyes narrow nonetheless, wondering if the Elven lord was attempting to rouse him, undoubtedly with the tangible color in his speech.
“It is pleasing to have found an ally in your kingdom.” To have been dismissed in the aftermath of the battle could have been a conclusion. Bard only knew the strength of his Men, and expertise in other race only lay in the benefit of the doubt he offered all. Holding his tongue, Bard did not want to be the cause of disturbing such peace.
“I would have none other to hope, than to have the people of Dale flourish once again.” Bard moved aside from the door for a proper welcome, citizens still crowding about and peeking for curiosities sake. “What have you? Do you need to rest?”
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