“Up the steps, turn left, down two doors…”
So intent on directions, and encumbered by a laden tray, the mumbling Hobbit didn’t see the Elven obstacle until it was too late. Gasping, he wheeled about to avoid a collision, crockery and consumables tilting to the stones in a lively clatter.
Quick hands grasped cartwheeling arms, preventing the Hobbit from spilling along with the dinner. Steadied, Sam gripped the rail.
“Beggin’ yer pardon.” “My apologies.” One spoke over the other, then both laughed. They crouched together to gather broken crockery and strewn food.
“Thank ye kindly,” Sam flustered, “Master…?”