A knock at the door was heard. Bethberry half-smiled with some puzzlement, for The White Horse was not a place that required guests to be inspected before entry. She motioned a guest who had risen to get the door back to his seat with a wave of her hand.
Finally, the door inched open. A man of indeterminate age and height peered in, somewhat nervously. He was dressed simply, although warmly in a thick woollen tunic and cloak, both of a deep green. The Innkeeper waved him in with a smile and nodded to one of the kitchen-hands to fetch a drink for the newest guest.
************
The man sat quietly at a table near the centre of the room, where he had been led by the member of staff. He could feel eyes on him. No-one came to sit at his table. He placed his chin in his hands and gazed into the fire, far down the hall at the end.
He became aware of a presence at his elbow and started. He looked up, into the eyes of the Innkeeper. "Will you introduce yourself, Sir?" she asked softly.
"Aye, Ma'am, if you will it," he replied courteously, although in the rough voice of a man unsused to speaking in company. "My name be Guthrin, and I bear the name of my father, who was of the Mark of Rohan." The Innkeeper heard the truth of it in his voice, and smiled at his naivete and curious manner.
"I'm just passing through," he went on. "Hoping for some bread and soup. I have been labouring on a tale of Rohan for some time, with some companions. I wonder if they are here tonight." He peered about the large, bustling room as if to discern those of whom he spoke.
"I am familiar with your tale Sir," she said warmly. "And glad I am that it is told in Rohan. We have other tales here that may interest you."
"That's good news, to be sure, mi'lady," he said with a grin. "I like stories. Are all these fine folk in the business of telling tales?"
[ December 17, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]
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And all the rest is literature
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