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Gil and Rowan
Gil choked on his mouthful of ale, spluttering as he attempted to swallow it. He blanched at the sound of the familiar voice then red stained his cheekbones as he turned to face its source.
And there she stood, the original reason his mood had fallen so far into a funk. There she stood, unaware of the discomfort she had . . . was . . . causing him.
Wiping the foam and dribbles from his lips and chin with the sleeve of his tunic, he grinned sheepishly at her. He stood up hastily, knocking his chair over, and croaked out her name. ‘Rowan!’ The effort of talking brought on a round of coughing.
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If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world – J.R.R. Tolkien
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