Neviel
Before the Bard could respond to Reggie or answer Woody and Hanson's concerns, a slender Elf lad had leapt to his feet, nervously eyed his companions who sat near by, and blurted out a plea, "Please, Master Hearpwine, let the rest of us sing the song. I was born in Lórien and spent my earliest years there until it got so lonely and we had to leave. I have forgotten too many things, but what I remember best is the trees. Father has explained to me that other folk have other ways, but I could never put an axe to living wood. And your song says that so well. My father would weep with joy, for your voice is as sweet as any Elvish loremaster that I have heard."
"Perhaps," he added, "the lads who don't want to sing that tune could help get things ready for the puppets, the ones Miz Bella mentioned, and then join the rest of us for a second round of song. Indeed, could we make up our own song, one that's about something everyone likes? Perhaps about games or food or running across a field on a bright day, maybe even an anthem of praise to Cook who gave us such a fine lunch?"
"And I have a little harp of my own, not so great and grand as a true Bard, but still it plays sweet and true."
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