Benia, half-blinded by the sharp contrast between the bright sunlight out of doors and the darkness of the interior of the inn, made her way through the throng of curious hobbits to the stairs. She was in a hurry to get out of the common area to the safety and privacy of her own room. Her encounter in the courtyard with the cloaked man on the gray horse had set her nerves on edge. She did not trust him and had a feeling that the more distance she put between herself and him, the better. Her arms loaded down with parcels, the provisions for her upcoming journey, she took the stairs quickly.
Unfortunately for her, in the excitement and confusion of emptying the attic of its treasures, one of the employees of the inn had dropped a pewter tankard on the stairs just below the landing. Benia's foot landed squarely upon it, and, the next thing she knew, she was airborne. She landed at the bottom of the stairs with a loud thump, her right leg bent under her at an awkward angle. Parcels scattered everywhere, and she became instantly aware of a ragged pain racing up her body from the pinned ankle.
"No!" she groaned bewteen clinched teeth. "No, no, no..."
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