An hour had passed since the afternoon's show, and Ehedril was still in high spirits from a successful performance (and still had a hint of rogue painted on her cheeks). Her joyful mood was further enhanced by the tankard and half of ale that she had already drank, and though she first only wanted to go out for one, now she had no intention of slowing down on her celebrating. As the sun went down, the excitement at The Prancing Pony only grew, and it became clear that it was far too early for her to leave.
Maybe a little conversation and pleasant company would slow down her drinking but let her continue to enjoy herself here. Ehedril looked around, spotted on of her actor friends, and waved to get his attention. He didn't see her. She tried again, but still had no response. Acting on an impulse, Ehedril grabbed a half eaten dinner roll from a plate on a nearby table and threw it at him with all her strength. Still, she didn't manage to get his attention. What she did manage to do was hit a complete stranger in the back of the head. Ehedril tried to shrink back into the crowd. Maybe no one saw her do it.
His hood was up. Fenion did his best to keep his appearance a secret, hiding his ears behind his garb… as well as he could, when he entered Bree. It was a difficult task with his height, for at six foot nine, he stood even taller than the Dunedain Rangers, and the shorter Breemen. That was why he preferred to sit while in the Prancing Pony.
There was much to watch and see here, and he was right in the middle of biting into a half-dried apple leftover from to bottom of the barrel of last autumn's stores when he felt something ricochet off the back of his head. Not uncommon in a tavern such as the Prancing Pony. Mortals came off as a bit… rowdier… than one would find in the Last Homely House where Fenion dwelled. At least since that large party of dwarves had come through some years back.
Fenion turned, looking behind him.
“Was that tall miss… the player...” a man who was sitting at a table beside him with his boots propped up noted.
Fenion's eyebrow arched and he reached down to pluck the roll from the floor, as his eyes sought the light haired woman who was seeming to try and move beyond the crowded tables. “I am afraid you've dropped something, my Lady,” he noted, tossing it back to her, as he skidded his chair across the floor, turning it. “Or is this part of the show?” His voice was lilting and smooth; in a manner that the men of Bree lacked.