[Kransha]

Warm green eyes, laced with a shadowy tint of enervation, surveyed the threshold of the White Horse Inn. The pale flesh beneath the figure’s eyes was rimmed with tinges of sable brought on by sleepless nights. He looked out over the vicinity, overlooking the immaculate masonry and welcoming feel of the structure, his gaze flitting to the vine-blanketed stable nearby and the sign, mounted ceremoniously on a post in front of the inn. His eyelids slowly lifted so that the vermillion orbs that lingered behind them could look more intently at the snow-white horse reared up on a green backdrop. It was a welcome sight to the old man as he turned back to the inn itself. Though the form, dragging himself torpidly into the building, bore a cold, almost debilitated demeanor as he pulled one stiff leg in front of the other, more animated limb, there was still a glimmering like in his expression. Though there was a visible increase tepidity of the surrounding air, he still saw fit to pull his emerald-colored cloak around his stooping shoulders, but lowered it again barely a moment later as he entered the warmer room, bustling with activity.

It was certainly an ample place that Osric made his way meekly into. He stopped a few measured paces through the threshold and assessed the first room, his wizened face wrinkling up as he squinted to see the various ornamentations and decorations for the festivities that he knew were coming. It was yet another anniversary, one of the many recorded in the vast corridors of his mind. He had a head for such things; dates, tales, epics, and all manner of information that would ever be needed by him or most others. It was his nature and he didn’t bother denying that fact, since he often swelled with pride when his encyclopedic knowledge was mentioned.

As he contemplated that, a smile creeping over his sour pallor, Osric took a seat in a sturdy chair and leaned back against it, hefting his inelastic leg onto another unused chair. He scratched at his scraggly brown beard, now intertwined with strands of aging gray that he thought did not belong. The room, filled with lighthearted feelings and goodwill brought him back to a simpler, better time. Wars could come and go in Rohan, but there was always a jovial air to receive him. The elder’s murky pupils focused like sunbeams and took one sweeping glance across the stretching mead hall, the view he saw allowing him another satisfied smile.

Oscric was a man of Rohan, but had only sought Edoras a few times in his many days. He had lived in Aldburg, an ancient town southeast of this grand city, for all of his life that had not been spent beneath a warrior’s banner, sitting atop a noble steed behind his now aged shield with the winds of glory at his back. He did not revel in reminiscing over those lost days, since they brought him little pleasure. His life had been simple, a valiant but composed man who served the cause of his king. To lighten the moods of those around him and elevate the lowest of times, he would tell others the stories that he knew like the back of his horse, regaling them gladly with stories of Rohan’s mighty kings, immortal warriors, and their awe-inspiring exploits. He rarely told stories now unless that was requested of him. Those timeless tales were embedded to deep in his consciousness to be forgotten so easily, so they stuck. Osric had been known, in his day, to burst spontaneously into muddled recitations. The man could still do that, when called upon, but had become more reserved.

Now, Osric was content to sit and listen to the rest of the world, relaxing himself in the comfortable atmosphere of the inn. He closed his eyes slowly, letting the sounds of the inn put him at rest, though it wouldn’t have done so for most. He could hear singing, melodic notes ringing like gently chiming bells in his ears. The swift and efficient harmony of a stringed instrument soon joined in.