Durefin drank the last of his now tepid tea. He left the boy to his sketching, and wandered out to the front portico to the inn. Leaning his elbows against the upper porch rail, he let his eyes wander about the yard, sizing up the day. ‘I suppose I should do something to earn my keep to day.’ He had no inclination to leave the area as yet, and what funds he had were running low.
A sudden breeze gusted, and he noted that there were a few loose shingles on the roof of the stable that needed tacking down. ‘There’s something I can set my hand to.’ He stood up straight, stretching the kinks from his back muscles and walked toward the stable, his eyes alert for a ladder of some sorts.
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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