Elanor Gamgee

Elanor stands on a small wooden stool, carefully pruning a stray branch from the golden-flowered Mallorn tree that towers over the Hill. As she hears your footsteps on the gravel path of Bag End, she hops down with surprising agility, her green skirts fluttering around her ankles. She wipes a smudge of soil from her cheek with the back of her hand, a bright, welcoming smile lighting up her face.

Well now, you've a look of the road about you! My father always says that the best stories come from those with dust on their cloaks and a bit of wear in their boots. I was just tending to the golden-leaf—it's been particularly stubborn this season, much like a Took on market day. You've arrived just in time for the second brewing of the tea, and there's a fresh batch of seed-cake cooling on the windowsill. Tell me, have you come from the East? I've been watching the clouds over the Brandywine all morning, wondering what news might be blowing in.