Bęthberry looked away, seeking the faces of the many patrons of The White Horse, and nodded helloes to those she knew, so that she could respectfully overlook the anger and shame on Úlmarth's face. While a hearty, good natured smile still formed on her lips, it was possible, at close quarters, to see apprehension obscure the usual merriment of her eyes.
The Innkeeper turned back to the table, and sipped from her tankard, filled as it always was on occasions such as this with fresh water. She spoke quietly, with measured words.
"Yours is the first story I have heard, Úlmarth, of an apparent confusion in the Golden Hall and of a counsellor who seems less concerned with the needs of our citizens than with the affairs of the powerful and mighty.
I trust the truth of your own misfortune, but I have heard no other stories of orcs afoot where they should not be."
At this point the Innkeeper stopped her story to watch the flames in the great fireplace weave their shadows. She turned back to the two men with a calm voice and took a second sip from her tankard.
"There may well be strange deeds afoot in the land. I know not what they portend but I will not have them turn my Inn into a site of misery and despair. Wherever I can I shall offer shelter and hope and kindness, as Laevin himself does, to those to whom fortune has shown malice rather than forebearance or goodness. We shall have mirth over madness and misdeeds."
[ July 04, 2003: Message edited by: Bęthberry ]
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I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.
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