[ What is this strange, dwarfish thing scuttling about beside the tables?

Serving staff, likely. Celegorm inclines his pointed chin, his thin-lipped mouth curving into a faint frown. Neatly-- because he's faster, more precise in movement-- he presses an empty glass into Samwise's chubby mitt as the Hobbit passes him by. It's the sort've elegantly irreverent thing one would do to a servant they expect to be seen, not heard, and no sooner is it done than Celegorm turns back to his previous conversation across the table, ignoring Samwise utterly. ]