The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Alaksoron]

Korik cased his flute. There would be no more music tonight. Some of the men groaned, those who were not too drunk, but Korik just ignored them. He could tell Eodwine was troubled. He also felt a prickling between his shoulders he had come to realize meant imminent danger, an uncanny sixth sense he had developed as a Ranger in the borderlands of western Gondor. He carried the flute case to his room and slipped it under his bed. Something told him to lock the door on his way back out. He did.

When Korik reappeared downstairs there was a wide quiver full of arrows on his back beside a yew short bow slung over his shoulder. The bowstring was taut and waxed. His swordbelt was still around his waist, the scabbarded long sword on his left hip.

With a stiff-collared white cloak draped over his forearm he walked over to Eodwine and clapped him on the back. "How about taking a look at my horse now?" Korik himself had drank sparingly; Eodwine..... "Are you alright?"