[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herlion stooped down a bit, entering the inn, so as not to hit his head upon the top of the doorway. Upon coming inside, he glanced with slight regret at the sunlit street outside, walls of houses echoing with the yells of small children and the calmer speech of older ones as a slight breeze played with his dark hair. Then he shut the door carefully, though it probably would not have made a difference had he slammed it, so loud was the din of conversation, and looked around.

There didn't seem to be anybody he recognized about. He sighed. It was rather difficult for him to get used to the way the inns worked, all the conversations and friendships started merely on a whim, and often forgotten the moment those involved left the house, to be renewed some other day, or not at all.

Some people jostled at him from, seemingly, all directions, so he moved aside, glancing at the assorted people gathered around tabled or sitting on benches. He found something to sit in a corner, and tried to relax into it, though his muscles simply wouldn't ease up. Finally he managed to find a comfortable position, and pulled out his pipe, lighting it slowly, in the corner, just watching everybody around him, looking nonchalant, feeling bashful.