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Hob puffed quietly on his pipe. He’d passed on the last offer of Dwarven spirits, preferring instead to stick to his mug of stout. The song the young lads were singing brought a bit of a mist to his eyes. And he wiped it away quickly with his cuff. The song had set him to thinking about his dear Marigold. Back on Girdley Island. Looking after their two small sons and their wee house while he was away.
He glanced at the big man, Benat, and wondered if he had someone he’d left behind when he’d gone on his travels.
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Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .
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