They say this was elvish land once. Hollin, it’s called on the maps but folks round here ain’t much into maps . . . too busy scratching life out o’ this cursed thin land. Course, some say fair folk never lived here, even that there weren’t no fair folk . . . that they’re some fireside tale for a winter’s eve.
‘Tis a while since we’ve had strangers here and these surely live up to the name. The old man and the scruffy fellow look plain enough, though there’s a watching air about ’em. And we’ve had the odd dwarf tradin’ in market afore, but them children with the old eyes make me shudder. Then there’s that big man with the grand clothes, proud as a king he is and an odd one even among them. Them horse lords yonder side the mountains don’t dress that fancy. And there’s the ironmongery on ’em all. They’re geared up for trouble. Whether giving or getting ain’t mine to know.
But ’tis the other that’s brought a hush to market. Tall and pale as a silver birch in starlight he is. Clear and sharp as a winter moon but soft as morning mist in summer. Fireside tale a walkin’.