The Wight walked carefully into the Glade. Carefully because the cats were still crowding about his legs. Funny animals, cats. If you step on them, they hiss and spit and use their claws to try and climb up your leg, presumably to get at your face. Not quite sure though, didn't wait around to find out. Now I just walk carefully instead.
He walked slowly through the growing crowd. Behind him he heard hisses and people crying out things like "Ouch". He noticed that the other guests were giving him a wide berth. Must be the cats.
The Wight proceeded to the refreshment stand. A man was serving chilled ale, just the thing after a long walk. "Might I have one please?" he asked. The barkeep poured a pint and turned to serve it...and froze.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You're a Wight!" the barkeep cried.
"Well, yes. Don't be concerned. What do you think I'll do? Steal your soul?" He smiled.
The barkeep fainted dead away, dropping the pint as he fell. Why do they always do that?
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Beleriand, Beleriand,
the borders of the Elven-land.
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