Erikur the Hunter

His eyebrows raised and his lips formed a very defined 'o', though no sound escaped him as the realization of just who his company was struck him. Of course he had heard of Gandalf the Grey, and just why he had not put it together that the old man was the famous (or infamous, depending on whom one was talking to) wizard was  beyond him as he now regarded the elder male with a more scrutinizing eye. He traveled light. There was no bag or supplies other than the pouch of tobacco he had produced from inside his robes to be seen, and no weapon other than perhaps his staff. However, if stories he had heard were any indication, Erikur was intelligent enough to know that he needed neither weapon nor supplies in order to survive - at least, in the Breelands. "Pardon my manners, then," he said, grin turning somewhat sheepish as he lowered his head in a small, respectful nod. "Didn't have anyone to teach me them, 'specially when it comes to wizards. Erikur, at your service."

There was little hesitation before Erikur accepted the man's offer and moved to join him on the log. Hospitality such as his was not unfamiliar to him, and something about the way the man spoke - and the sweet, pungent scent of pipe tobacco - reminded him of those few, small, kind beings he occasionally met from the warm, lush lands of the Shire. Hobbits, as they preferred to be called, though mostly everyone else referred to them as Halflings for their size. "Well, I cannot refuse an offer such as this on such a fine morning, now, can I?" he said with a crooked grin. A calloused hand delved into one of his own pockets, only to get lost as he caught sight of the small bit of flame seemingly having appeared from nowhere on the old man's thumb as though it were a match. "Now that's - definitely not something I see every day. Was that... magic?"

Sharp // Taal + Erikur

   Somewhat reluctantly and with a mildly sheepish grin, Erikur handed    his skinning knife over to the tiny redhead as he tried not to stare. It was    odd, how tiny she was - no larger than a Hobbit - but with the curves of    a fully grown woman, and without the large, hairy feet. He had been trying    for days to figure out what she was, and the closest thing he could come    up with was an odd Dwarf.

Reblog if you think that having a flirty muse DOES NOT count as forcing ships!

The old man was... off, that much was for certain. In his years of dwelling in the woods near Bree he had encounter odd things, strange things that would make the hair on his chest (what little there was) stand on end, but something about the individual standing in front of him simply felt -                      - other. "Forgotten where you'd started from," he stated, crossing his arms with a creak of leather. "Perhaps if you tell me where you were going, I could set you on the right track again."

"I did not mean to offend you, sir, I was simply admitting my surprise. You're not lost, are you? It's not often I meet - uh - more experienced folk out here, unless they wandered too far from the road."