Smith of the Word stood outside the inn called the White Horse, watching the fire from the window at the front of the inn, its warm light flickering against the pane of glass, and the people milling about inside. Smith debated with herself, unsure of whether or not she should enter the warm and inviting atmosphere. The cold wind of night swirled around her strong, comely frame, lifting her cloak and making it dance in the eddies created by its gust. The wind chilled Smith to the bone, and the fire within the White Horse seemed rather inviting. Faced with a choice between another night of cold wandering and a night seated by a warm fire, Smith opened the small wooden door and entered the inn.
The smells that bombarded Smith's senses brought a smile to her face: a roaring fire, mead and ale, roasted meat. Smith looked around, seeing none but strange faces and an empty seat near the fire. She strode across the room and took the seat, her large brown eyes keen and watchful of all that went on around her.
Her mind recalled a story that she remembered her grandfather telling her, a story of elves unlike her kin-elves that lived deep within Fangorn Forest. Her eyes switched from a keen awareness to a deep inward stare as she warmed herself by the fire and watched the scenes of the story play itself out in her mind.
[ January 29, 2003: Message edited by: Smith of the Word ]
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