They knew him well on Rath Tirin, on Southron Street. Every morn, when fog lay still on Pelargir's wharf, he came clinking by - the Bottle Boy, Audaliufs.
For sandy Harad sold ale in glass that nightly broke. Audaliufs would fetch it, turn a coin from the glass-smith.
All hands and face, Audaliufs, and wordless sound. He'd the heavy tongue, Haradrim said. But a happy child – when day broke bright, he clapped and capered before his 'treasure' all alight.
Poor sunless lad, they thought, and 'paid' a bite of first-bread, honoring ancient duty: Burn with kindness for the Gentled Ones.
Prompt: Bottle, wharf