The White Horse

[Orual]

A lean figure limped into the inn, shouldering his brown pack. He looked around the room, taking in all of his fellow patrons, and nodded slowly. He took a deep breath and a seat at the bar. In a voice hardly louder than a whisper, he asked for an ale.

He was quite a sight, with his thick flaxen hair falling into his sharp grey eyes. He kept pushing it away impatiently, but to no avail. It had become his nervous habit. He wasn't an unattractive young man, but very thin, and his limp was distracting. His tawny-coloured shirt was dusty and too large, making him look even smaller than he already was. His eyes darted to and fro around the room, as though anxious that someone would attack him. He thanked the innkeeper when his ale came, and drank it quickly. It seemed to relax him; he leaned his head back and sighed. Éorlan was his name, and he had come to the Inn to recuperate from his journies and to look for good company, good tales, and perhaps even a good adventure.