"YAH YAH YAH!" an old man said, his dry feet crunching through the underbrush. He was perhaps four feet high, maybe taller if his back wasnt hunched over from age. A pair of filmy glasses perched on the end of his nose, and a whispy white beard and mustache clung to his face like a mold. "So much racket too-night." he said in a rather high pitched voice.
"Crones shouldnt shout when old men try to sleep, EH!?" he said. "And then there are elfses, tall and pretty, BAH! Nothing but trouble comes on your heels, say I." He carried a walking stick as gnarled as he was, and a stout leather script hung from his waist, similar to the great cloth handbags of merchants but this one was black leather and the clasp looked to be of silver.
"How bout wave moonstone in air, light big fire, EH. That way whole world know crone. Save time, just give to demon. That way we just die with noo-crone wail." he snatched the moonstone from her hand. For a second, those who saw the old man saw that beneath the shabby and old exterior was the spirit of one of the Istari, called by some magi, and by others meddlers and stormcrows.
"You, big and pointy ears, go make fire." the old man barked at Strath, "Tea no make itself." He said as he pulled a small cast iron teapot from his pack and half flung it at Luna.