Herlion slid open the door of the inn. The sign swaying over his head told him that it was called The White Horse, and that it was owned by a woman called Bethberry. It was rather cold outside, so Herlion, noticing the disapproving looks the guests nearer to the door were giving him, closed it hastily, keeping the wind from slamming it shut.
He edged quickly around the room, moved towards the bar, keeping as close to the walls as possible without walking into anything or anybody. Finally, coming to the bar, he ordered a beer and sat down quietly in a corner, cushioning his bench with his cloak, and hoping that there was somebody with a good story to tell near him, for Herlion loved listning to good stories, whether true or old adventures of legend, of which nobody knew how much was truth and how much fancy of the teller.
[ May 11, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]
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"Glue... very powerful stuff."
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