From the shadowy corner, a soft voice cleared its throat, and said, "But trouble is all the Hand brings..."
Errol glanced once around the room before coming back to the corner in question and locating the source of the voice.
She stood up slowly, and stepped dramatically into the light, a gradient of shadow rising up her face like a drapery revealing a rare and expensive piece of art. Her face was like a porcelain statue, her skin white as snow and her expression stony and sincere, as if she had some vitally important information that she may or may not reveal. Her eyes were a milky turquoise-lavender swirl, and they seemed to shine like bright stars in contrast to the darkness and dullness of the room.
She was dressed in satin robes of deepest blue, and a shiny golden pendant rested gently just above her tantalizingly low neckline. It had strange markings on it, which Errol pretended to try to read, but couldn't make out. She stood there, like everyone else, twice as tall as Errol; but that didn't stop him from hoping dreamily that she would find him strangely attractive and brilliant.
"Who are you?" said Errol.
"You may call me Brynawyndil, though that is not my true name."
"Brynawyndil," said Errol, in the most serious and un-hobbit-like voice he could manage, "what do you know of the Men of the Hand?"
Brynawyndil's eyes darted toward the two strangers, and she stared at the man in black as she spoke. "I know many things."