[Gryphon Hall]

The winter was bitingly cold, but Marco was thankful for his fur jacket and fur-lined boots. He wearily dragged his cart down the lane. He had been travelling for most of the wee hours of the morning, though now he wished that he had camped and slept instead out in the wild. He was so tired.

His hand kept straying to a secret pocket sewn into his trousers without his meaning to. It had become his habit to always check his pouch of money, having lost some to pickpockets and robbers so many times. Unconsciously feeling the reassuring lump of coins, his mind turned to trying to find a place to eat and to sleep. He was so tired.

He was suddenly held up by a carriage in front of what looked liked an inn or tavern. Swinging outside was board with a white horse on a green field. Figures, he thought. This is Rohan after all. So wearily he steered his cart around the cart. What's holding it up?

Marco saw a giggling girl talking with a man. At that moment the man led the girl to his carriage, and it drove off. Marco cursed the effort of steering around the carriage when it was going to drive off at that precise moment anyway. He was so tired.

So wearily he steered the cart to just beside the large, friendly doorway. Some of the firelight was bleeding out and it cheered him a little. Parking the cart which contained his forge and his tools, he almost went into The White Horse, then abruptly stopped. He hurried to the cart and pulled off two bundles, his most precious possessions. One was longish, wrapped in a blanket and tied with cords; the other was a small backpack. From the way he hefted the pack, one can tell it was heavy. He may lose all in the cart, but not these two.

The first bundle contained his best work: a very sharp double-edged sword in a scabbard he also made himself. Though the sword was not what others would call "magical" and would certainly not be able to contend with other elven blades, he was very proud of it; it was fine work for a mere Barding. He used this sword to prove to people his worth as a smith, he who always had to lower his prices and do more work so that people would hire him. Everyone wants dwarvish work, he mused bitterly. He didn't hate the dwarves, for he learned all he knew from them. As for the sword, he knew that he would have to sadly sell it someday, but for now it still belonged to him.

The pack contained ingots of metal he had painstakingly gathered from everywhere he has been to. Each metal had a different strength and consistency, and behaved differently when heat is applied to it or when it is ground to sharpness. This was his ace, his secret. Because he knew no magic to enchant the blades he made, all of them were of composite make, just so that they can perform well. The best he had made he now held in his other hand, the sword. The pack he slung on his back after making sure his padlocks were secure, and then entered the inn.

[ December 15, 2002: Message edited by: Gryphon Hall ]