He was stout and ruddy-faced, with a high nose and a bright red beard bound all in brass bells that fell to his waist and jangled as he moved. A thick circlet of iron sat about his head, though it fitted him ill. He whistled as he walked.
"Ullo there," he started in slow, halting Adunaic. "I'm Froin. Captain of the Gate."
She pulled herself up to her great height. "Hail, dwarf. I am Ûrîphêl, Razanaur's daughter and Núnadië's child. I come over the western seas in the name of Tar-Calmacil the King, and my voice is the voice of the Land of the Star."
The Dwarf whistled appreciatively. "Well...as I said, I'm Froin."
Ûrîphêl glowered down at him and set her eyes with imperious steel. He did not seem to notice.
"Captain of the Gate," he pitched in helpfully, as if she had maybe forgotten. "And my voice is none but Froin's. The traders said there was one of the tall folk making noise outside the gate, and now I'm here. What d'you want?"
"I would break words with your king."
"Well then, I'm afraid you've come a long way for nothing. The gates are shut. And 'tis not my place to speak for the King, but I dare imagine that Durin's heir does not oft running for every Man who knocks at his door."
Ûrîphêl frowned. This was growing frustrating. "I come on behalf of Númenór, and the King of the Men of the West."
Froin glanced about pointedly, the bells on his beard jangling. "I do not see a king anywhere, do you? And since you are not your king, and I am not mine, what say you tell me what you came to ask, and I shall see if it's worth his time."
Ûrîphêl had had enough. Her mouth was a thin line of impatience. "I am the second-born of Razanaur the Golden, who was Lord of Orrostar in a line unmingled from Tazayâr the First, who was a Prince of the Star and himself the blood of Elros Tar-Minyatur. I am a Lord Shaper and a holder of one of the seventeen Rods of Making, and I am counted thus among the Zimrailai. I come in the name of the Lords of the West. I am worth your time, dwarf."
"And I," the dwarf repeated slowly and with patience, as if to a child, "am Froin. Ori's son, if you wish, though he was a coppersmith and bit of a fool. I am Captain of the Gate. And the Gate is shut. None may pass, and certainly not you, unless you speak your business."
Ûrîphêl stared for a long moment, her jaw tight as a spring. Froin son of Ori whistled a light tune.