The ale tents were filled with revelers, mostly men and women singing and dancing gayly, wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands and talking over one another. There were many dwarves and a few of the "wee folk" right at home among the men of Lake Town, boasting and belching, and weaving unbelievable tales of great deeds performed. There were but few elves to be seen; one might have walked by an elf and not even known, save if by chance a flash of unique hem or glint of unusual metal were noticed. But even so, elves were less likely to be found in ale tents, preferring, as was their want, the taste of mead.
It was in the mead tent that Finrod sat; a crowd as mixed in company as any other currently in Lake Town, though orders of magnitude quieter, but certainly no less drunken. The man sat beneath a large, wide-brimmed hat and chewed on the mouthpiece of an unlit pipe. A cup of mead stood at attention on the small, round table before him. If one were to look at it's contents the cup would appear to have been untouched. Finrod approximated a relaxed recline, but his mind was alert. Situated at the back of the tent near one of the windows in the heavy cloth tent, rolled up and secured with strap so as to let cool air in, Finrod was able to view multiple entryways and still keep from overheating in the stifling air of the mead tent.
Acknowledging slight nods from various elf-kind that passed by, nods so slight as to be nearly undetectable, Finrod kept vigilant and watchful. He wasn't here to celebrate, though seeing the mix of Free-peoples was heartening indeed. Rather, Finrod was here to quietly observe just as he had been trained his whole life to do. One of many eyes watching this land and surrounding regions, many and yet all too few. Recent events would surely have captured the attention of agents of evil, and a crowd such as this would nearly guarantee characters of ill repute.
