|
Hama dismounted in the stableyard, running a hand over Valuk’s mane and patting the horse on its neck several times. “Stay here, old friend. I’m going to get a drink,” he whispered in Rohirric. Striding up to the path to the inn, several Rohirrim saluted him and he returned the gesture accordingly. His long cloak billowing in the breeze, he reached the door of the tavern and opened it. Walking in he took his helmet off, resting it on the bar and ordering some ale which came soon. He took a deep gulp, savouring the bitter taste of the brew as is sloshed around his mouth and down his throat. Letting out an involuntary sigh as he put the glass down, he ran a hand through his long golden hair, scratching his scalp lightly. “Barman, is there any of the salt-pork left?” he asked across the counter, to which the innkeeper shook his head. Hama cursed under his breath, not violently, but adequately to satisfy himself. “I’ll have some bread then,” he said.
When his bread came it was fresh-hot from the oven with butter, which was already starting to melt, amply spread onto its surface. Hama took a bite and smiled. Simple but delicious, that was the way he liked food. His eyes were drawn to a gathered party on one of the tables. One woman he knew, Sandrina Hitherford, daughter of a minor landowner. Her father had died recently, under somewhat suspicious circumstances. Mumbling he finished his bread and ale and flipped a couple of silver coins to the barkeep, who nodded and thanked him.
Getting down from his stool at the bar, he walked over to the table Sandrina was sitting at. “Greetings, miss Hitherford. I’m sorry about your father…I am Hama Haukrsonn, General of Rohan…”
|